ROMAN
JAKOBSON
M
Y
YEARS
ROMAN ]AKOBSON
MY FUTURIST YEARS
Compiled and edited by Bengt Jangfeldt and
Stephen Rudy
Translated and with an introduction
by Stephen Rudy
MARSILIO PUBLISHERS
NEW Y ORK
Original title: Jakobson-Budetljanin
Copyright © 1992
The Roman Jakobson and Krystyna
Pomorska Jakobson Foundation
Translation copyright © 1997 by Stephen Rudy
with the exception of "The Newest Russian Poetry" and
"On a Generation that Squandered Its Poets,"
from Major Soviet Writers, ed. E.J. Brown
© 1973 by Oxford University Press,
and reprinted with permission.
Of this edition copyright © 1997 by
Marsilio Publishers Corp.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
ISBN 0-941419-79-7
LOC 92-62369
Distributed in the United States by
Consortium Book Sales and Distribution
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All
rights reserved
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
by Stephen Rudy. . . .. . . . . . .. . .. . . . . . . . .
V11
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
by Bengt jangfeldt .....................................
xxv
PART ONE: MEMOIR
A F UTURIAN O F SCIENCE
I...................................................
3
II. ... . ....... . . . ...... . .. . ........ . ......... . ......
78
III. ....... . ....... .
92
. ........ . .......... . ....... . . ..
PART TW O: LETT ERS
T O A.E. KRUCHENYX .................................
103
TO M.V. MATJUSHIN ............ . .......... . ...... . .... 107
TO E.JU. KAGAN.... . ...... . .. . . . ...... . . .
. ....... . .... 109
TO ELSA TRIOLET .... ..... . ........ ........ ........ ...
111
PART T HREE: E S SAY S
FUTURISM...
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.
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THE TASKS OF ARTISTIC PROPAGANDA.. . .
NEW ART IN THE WEST.
DADA
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145
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........ . ......... . ....... . . 156
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163
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..
173
ITS POETS........................................
209
THE NEWEST RUSSIAN POETRY: V. XLEBNIKOV
. .
ON A GENERATION THAT SQUANDERED
PART F OU R: POEMS AND P RO S E
JUVENILIA.
.
. ..... . . . ..... . . . ...... . . ........... . ....... 249
FUTURISTIC VERSES .
.
JOCULAR VERSES ...
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. ...
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.
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VERSES TO ELSA TRIOLET . ...... . .. .
PROSE
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...
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COMMENTARIES.
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...
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...
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251
255
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..
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262
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. . .... . ....... . . . .. . . .... . . .. . ..... . . . . . 269
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
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LIST OF WORKS CITED ..
.. .. .... .. ...
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INDEX OF NAMES AND WORKS. . .. . .
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.....
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346
348
359
INTRODUCTION
1.
Roman Jakobson was one of the major scholars of this century.
His publications encompassed over 650 books and articles on
the subjects of linguistics, Slavic studies, poetics, and semiotics
(see Rudy 1990),* and have been translated into fifteen lan­
guages. His Collected Works is currently up to its tenth volume
and contains some seven thousand pages of his writings.
During his lifetime he was a member of some thirty learned
societies and received honorary degrees from over two dozen
universities.
Roman Osipovich Jakobson was born in Moscow on
October 10, 1896 and died in Cambridge, Massachusetts on
July 18, 1982. In between he underwent a personal and intel­
lectual odyssey that is remarkable by any standard. He grew up
in the heyday of Russian culture that preceded the Revolution.
An active member of the avant-garde, he was one of the
founders of the Moscow Linguistic Circle and a leader of the
All references in this book are given in the short form (Author Date, page);
for full rcfcrelll'{!s sec the I ,ist of Works Cited at the end of the volume.
•
x
I MY FUTURIST YEARS
literary-critical school known as Russian Formalism. In 1920
he went to Prague as a translator for a Soviet diplomatic mis­
sion and decided to continue his studies there. He soon became
deeply involved in the cultural life of the Czech Republic, help­
ing in 1926 to found the Prague Linguistic Circle. W hen the
Nazis invaded Czechoslovakia on March 15, 1939, Jakobson,
who was a virulent anti-fascist and well-known to the Gestapo,
was alerted by friends to leave Brno, where he taught at the
Masaryk University. After having reduced his archive to "nine
pails of ashes," as he would later put it, he fled to Prague, where
he hid in his father-in-law's wardrobe for a month while
attempting to obtain visas to various countries. He finally suc­
ceeded in obtaining a visa to Denmark, and on April 22, 1939,
travelled there by train via Berlin. (He spent time at the station
during the change of trains writing to his friends, who were
astonished when they received postcards from Jakobson posted
in Berlin a couple of days after Hitler's fiftieth-birthday cele­
bration.) His sojourn in Denmark, where he lectured at the
University of Copenhagen, was brief: anticipating the coming
invasion, he fled to Norway in September, which was in turn
invaded by the Nazis on April 9, 1940, and barely escaped with
his life. (It was a dramatic escape indeed: he was driven by a
Norwegian Socialist from Oslo to the far Northern border with
Sweden in a cart, lying in a coffin in the back, while his wife sat
in front with the driver, playing the role of the grieving widow.)
His brief time in Sweden, where he researched the topics of
child language and aphasia, was one of the most productive in
his life, and he always recalled it later with great affection. In
May 1941 he was able to obtain a visa for America, and trav­
elled on the same boat as the philosopher Ernst Cassirer which
floated through the wreckage of the German battleship
Bismarck, having narrowly missed the actual battle. In New
York Jakobson was fortunate enough to find refuge at the Free
INTRODUCTION
/ xi
French and Belgian University attached to the New School for
Social Research, one of the few American institutions hos­
pitable to Jewish emigre scholars. He later obtained a profes­
sorship at Columbia, where he taught from 1943 until 1949,
when he moved to Harvard, where he taught until 1967, hold­
ing a simultaneous apppointment as Institute Professor at the
Massachusetts Institute of Technology from 1957 until 1967.
He continued active research and lecturing until his death at
the age of eighty-five.
Those who knew Jakobson personally were struck not only
by his genius as a scholar, but by his charm and vitality as a
human being. He was a brilliant raconteur with a fabulous
memory, and dining at his table was both a convivial and edu­
cational experience. One of his favorite topics was his youthful
friendship with the great poets and artists of the Russian avant­
garde. He often spoke about the influence that experience had
had on his later scientific views, in particular his intensive,
decades-long work on the question of poetic language. The
current volume opens with his most detailed discussion of his
early formative years, a fascinating account of his life with and
in the Russian avant-garde in the period from 1910 to 1920.
Since it is based on taped interviews, it also gives one an
impression of his oral style as a story-teller. The volume then
proceeds-through Jakobson's essays, letters, and his own liter­
ary writings-to further document his role in the turbulent cul­
tural life of that era. A few words about the literary and cultur­
al background and some of the theoretical issues involved in
approaching the "new art" of the period may be of help in ori­
entating the reader before turning to Jakobson's own texts.
xii /
MY FU TURIST YEARS
II.
There are few instances in the history of the arts of such an
intense feed-back system as existed in the artistic and theoret­
ical praxis of the Russian avant-garde in the period 1910-1920.
As Hugh McLean writes: "More than a dozen major poets
were at the height of their powers; the air was filled with their
harmonies-and with the jangling discords of their theoretical
wrangling. As if by a law of nature, the poets in their turn
engendered a succession of brilliant young critics and theoreti­
cians of verse to classify and interpret their work. One of the
greatest of these, of course, was Roman Jakobson" (1987, 34).
Indeed, Jakobson's early critical works must be regarded not
just as an attempt to create a methodology for the literary-crit­
ical movement known as Russian Formalism, but to defend
the "new art," in particular Russian Futurism in its most radi­
cal form.
One of the central tendencies of the Futurists, derived from
a conscious parallel with the art of the Cubists in particular,
was the liberation of poetic language from referentiality and an
emphasis on the medium itself, its autonomous values and
possibilities. Their emphasis on the materiality of poetic form
led to works which fragmented and distorted language to the
extreme, testing the relationship of sound and sense. In cate­
gorizing such works they coined phrases such as "transrational
language" (zaumnyj jazyk or zaum') and the "selfsome word"
(samovitoe slovo).Jakobson himself experimented in this vein
(see the poems on pp. 251-255 of the present volume) and was
one of the first to examine its theoretical implications for lin­
guistics. As he emphasized in The Newest Russian Poetry,
IN TRODUC TION
/ xiii
Futurist poetry was simply an extreme example of the differ­
ence between everyday speech and poetic language: "The
mechanical association between sound and meaning by conti­
guity is realized all the more rapidly as it is made by habit.
Hence the conservatism of practical speech. The form of the
word quickly dies out." In poetic language, on the contrary,
"the connection between the aspect of sound and that of
meaning is tighter, more intimate, and language is according­
ly more revolutionary, insofar as habitual associations by con­
tiguity retreat into the background" (see p. 178 below). The
type of revolutionary estrangement that occurs in transrational
poetry is so severe that familiar words are wrenched from
habitual meanings and aligned on the basis of similarity and
parallelism with nonexistent words, fragments of words, or
even sheer sounds. On this level, the meaning of a poem in
transrational languages lies both in its disruptive gesture-its
challenge to linguistic cerebration-and in its formal reorgani­
zation of language.
Another point is that-however disparaging the critics of
transrational verse care to be in dismissing it as sheer non­
sense-there can be no doubt that it is composed of "words"
and pertains to the field of language. The Russian Formalists,
who both championed and analyzed the sound poem, were the
first theorists to attack the problematics of the so-called "empty
word." The theme is so obsessive that one finds the identical
example in Viktor Shklovskij's essay in the first OPOJAZ publi­
cation, "On Poetry and Trans-sense Language," 1916, and in
Jakobson's article on Goldstein's book Wortbegriff[ The Word­
Concept], written almost half a century later, in 1959. The
"empty word" in this example is kuboa, which appears in Knut
Hamsun's novel Hunger. In a remarkable passage, Hamsun
describes the effort of a speaker to figure out the meaning of a
verbal sign that has emerged in his consciousness. In this case
xiv
I MY FUTURIST YEARS
the speaker is not a sound poet or zaumnik; rather, the emer­
gence of a "new word" is motivated by the hero's state of
exhaustion and delirium:
It is not in the language; I discovered it."Kuboa." It has let­
ters as a word has....With the most significant jerks in my
chain of ideas I seek to explain the meaning of my new word.
There was no occasion for it to mean either God or the
Tivoli; and who said that it was to signify cattle show? ...
No, on second thought, it was not absolutely necessary that
it should mean padlock, or sunrise ....I had fully formed an
opinion as to what it should not signify. . . . No! . .. it is
impossible to let it signify emigration or tobacco factory.
(Hamsun 1920, 87f£)
In glossing this passage in 1959, Jakobson emphasized the
fact that as soon as a sound sequence has been perceived as a
signifier, it demands a signified, if only by negation and diver­
gence: "as far as the 'new word' is believed to belong to the
given language, its meaning with high probability is expected to
be in some respect divergent from the meanings of the other
words of the same language. Thus one has an opinion 'as to
what it should not signify' without knowing 'what it should sig­
nify.'" Jakobson uses the technical linguistic concept of the
"zero sign," as he had done some forty years earlier in his essay
on Xlebnikov, to label kuboa, "or any word one knows to exist
in a given language without remembering its meaning," as not
a signifier without a signified but a signifier with a "zero sig­
nified."
The Dadaist Hugo Ball, who practised and promoted the
new medium of the sound poem, labelled such words "gram­
mologues" or "magical floating words." Today we might call
them, after Lacan, "floating signifiers," or "occasional words" in
the terminology of the Russian semiotician Jurij Lotman. Such
INTRODUCTION /
xv
words are nonce words, rather than nonsense strictly speaking.
They depend upon the context of their situational utterance as
well as upon that of their compositional patterning and relation
to similar existing words, and there can be no doubt that they
exercise a spell on both poet and audience. As Hugo Ball
recounts in describing his first poetic efforts in this direction,
"such word images, when they are successful, are irresistibly and
hypnotically engraved on the memory, and they emerge again
from the memory with just as little resistance and friction. It
has frequently happened that people who visited our evening
performances without being prepared for them were so
impressed by a single word or phrase that it stayed with them
for weeks. Lazy or apathetic people, whose resistance is low, are
especially tormented in this way." (Ball 1974,67; entry of June
15,1916.) It is interesting to note that apart from the typolog­
ical similarities between zaum' and the experiments of the
Dadaists, there was a direct historical link; apparently
Kandinskij read Ball some of Xlebnikov's poems in Zurich in
1916 (see Watts 1988,128).
For Jakobson the linguist it became apparent quite early that
any sound sequence within language, even if in a foreign or
unknown tongue, is categorically different from natural sounds
or music, and thus demands a meaning, even if purely differen­
tial or relational. This is one of the reasons, I believe, that
Jakobson's works on the relation between neurological disrup­
tions and language are of such importance for poetics, in par­
ticular his avid interest in research on the two hemispheres of
the brain. The "split brain" hpothesis provides, as it were, a bio­
logical foundation for zaum' and sound poetry in general: they
are not simply a type of formal sound instrumentation or ver­
bal music, the latter phrase being a contradiction in terms. They
remain tied to language and implicate meaning, even if on an
extremel y primitive level. Jakobson's article "Aphasic Disorders
xvi I MY FU TURIST YEARS
from a Linguistic Angle," first published in 1975, discusses this
in detail:
For the speaker and listener speech sounds necessarily act as
carriers of meaning. Sound and meaning are, both for lan­
guage and for linguistics, an indissoluble duality. . . . The
degree to which speech sounds are a completely peculiar
phenomenon among auditory events has been made clear by
the remarkable experiments conducted in diverse countries
during the last decade: these investigations have proved the
privileged position of the right ear, connected with the left
hemisphere, in perceiving speech sounds. Is it not remark­
able that the right ear is a better receptor of speech compo­
nents, in contradistinction to the superiority of the left ear
for all non-verbal sounds, whether musical tones or noises?
This shows that from the beginning speech sounds appear as
a particular category to which the human brain reacts in a
specific way, and this peculiarity is due precisely to the fact
that speech sounds fulfill a quite distinct and multifarious
role: in different way s they function as carriers of meaning.
In discussing zaum', I have tried to show the radical orien­
tation of transrational verse as well as its reflection in
Jakobson's linguistic theories. In turning to the second period
of his activity, which extends from 1919 to 1920, one sees his
role as a critical partisan of Futurism in a direct political sense.
The activist stance is clearly related to his close relationship
with Majakovskij and the Briks, who had moved in the begin­
ning of March 1919 from Petrograd to Moscow. It was during
the late spring and summer of 1919 that Jakobson worked as
Osip Brik's assistant at the Fine Arts Division (IZ0) of
Lunacharskij's People's Commissariat of Enlightenment
(Narkompros). 1Z0 was founded in early 1918 as part of the
Bolsheviks' effort to consolidate administrative control and
policy jurisdiction over the cultural life of the country, as well
INTRODUCTION / xvii
as to overcome their feeling of total isolation in cultural mat­
ters. Headed by David Shterenberg, a progressive artist with
ties to the Futurists and Suprematists, it was run by such artists
as Al'tman, Malevich, Kandinskij, and Tatlin, who served as
deputy chief and head of the Moscow division. Majakovskij
was particularly active in editing IZO's Petrograd newspaper, Art
of the Commune [Iskusstvo kommuny], nineteen issues of which
were published between December 1918 and April 1919;
indeed, some of his best poems of the period were first pub­
lished there as what might be termed "poetic editorials" (see
Jangfeldt 1976). IZO's Moscow organ, Art [Iskusstvo], in which
Brik was active, appeared in eight issues from January to
December of 1919. Two of Jakobson's articles included in the
current volume were first published there: his well-known
appraisal "Futurism" (No. 7, August 2, 1919) and a rarely men­
tioned editorial manifesto entitled "The Tasks of Artistic
Progaganda" (No. 8, September 5, 1919).
The Futurists regarded themselves as leaders of the
Revolution in the cultural sphere, and IZO, with its two news­
papers, gave them an outlet to champion the new art. As Bengt
Jangfeldt writes in his monograph on Majakovskij and
Futurism during this period, the Futurists "-rightly-saw
themselves as the only radical and innovative cultural workers
of their time; and they were in addition the only group ready
and willing to cooperate with the political revolution" (1976,
36). They were subjected to what Jangfeldt characterizes aptly
as "criticism both irrelevant and spiteful" from various direc­
tions- the Communist Party, right-wing intelligentsia and the
academicians, and the Proletkul't-criticism that anticipates
the later campaign against the Formalists. A typical editorial in
Izvestija as early as December 29, 1917 cautioned against "the
futurists, [who by] penetrating into the proletarian milieu,
could bring the putrid poison of the decaying bourgeois
xviii / MY FUTURIST YEARS
organism into the healthy spirit of the proletariat" (quoted in
Fitzpatrick 1970, 123). Criticism centered on the Futurists'
destructive attitude toward the classics without understanding
its rhetorical function, and on the nature of its avant-garde pro­
duction, which was simply branded bourgeois decadence. As
Shterenberg was quick to counter, IZO was a dynamic and
activist organization devoted to revolution in the arts: "You
shout about proletarian culture. You have taken a monopoly on
yourselves. But what have you done all this time, when you have
had every chance to act? . . . Nothing. . . . If we, destroying old
forms of human culture, created new forms appropriate to new
content, we have the right to state that we are doing great revo­
lutionary work" (quoted in Fitzpatrick 1970, 123). As late as
1919 Lunacharskij continued to support the Futurists for their
artistic activism, from which example the proletariat, in his
opinion, could benefit: "The dynamism and methods of collec­
tive work which are so characteristic of futurist art certainly
stand in some sort of relationship to what the proletariat may
create in the artistic field" (1967, 301). Despite the considerable
achievements of IZO in staging exhibitions and reorganizing art
teaching, the attacks were so persistent that Art ofthe Commune
was closed after the April 13, 1919 issue, and Art had only a few
months to go.
Jakobson's piece, "The Tasks of Artistic Propaganda, "
appeared against this background and may be regarded as a
unique blend of IZO-Futurist ideology with the Formalist the­
ory of the history of art. It was published as the lead column in
the September 5th issue of Art, beneath a large banner
announcing "The Seventh of September is the Day of Soviet
Propaganda," which is in sharp contrast both in typeface and in
emphasis to his own headline title-"artistic propaganda. " It
opens by asking whether it is possible to "simultaneously incul­
cate in the masses all the aesthetic movements present at a
INTRODUCTION / xix
gIven moment." The answer is a decided no, formulated
according to the Formalist credo that any work of art is a defor­
mation of previous works, which affords literary evolution a
dynamic nature. It goes on to debunk the notion of popular
appeal as a measure of a work's value, a conservative tendency
that is opposed to "truly revolutionary artistic enlightenment,"
the task of which is "the revolutionizing of cultural, in particu­
lar, aesthetic habits" and "the overcoming of artistic statics."
Few essays of the period so vociferously combine the political
rhetoric of the period with a supposedly scientific theory for
artistic evolution.
Jakobson's conclusion relies heavily on the premise of the
Russian Formalists-apparent as early as Shklovskij's 1914
essay "The Resurrection of the Word"-that one of the basic
functions of any aesthetic phenomenon is to revitalize the sign,
thereby breaking conventional modes of perception and con­
ceptualization (see Erlich 1965, 176ff.). In his essay "Futurism"
of the same year (see pp. 145-152 below), Jakobson finds visu­
al art particularly conducive to the "rehabilitation" of reality,
since it is directly based upon perception: "Perceptions, in mul­
tiplying, become mechanized; objects, not being perceived, are
taken on faith. Painting battles against the automatization of
perception, it signals the object." However, even artistic forms,
"having become antiquated, are also perceived on faith." As
Jakobson puts it The Newest Russian Poetry, "form exists for us
only as long as we sense the resistance of the material. . . .
[When] form takes possession of the material, the material is
totally dominated by the form . . . [and] form becomes
seterotype and it is no longer alive" (cf. pp. 174, 189 below).
Gleizes and Metzinger, stressing the Cubist search for painting
that has "the hard brilliancy of a new coin," make a similar
observation: "there are painters' methods as there are writers'
methods; by passin� from hand to hand they grow colorless,
xx
/ MY FU TURIST YEARS
insipid, and abstract " (1912; in Herbert 1964, 56). From the
realization of this fact follows the device of "deliberately imped­
ed form" (zatrudnifnnaja forma), which both Cubism and
Formalism apply extensively. In increasing the tension between
sign and object (or more narrowly speaking, denotatum),
Cubism intensifies our perception and understanding of reali­
ty. This emerges clearly in the following statement by Gleizes
and Metzinger, which Jakobson paraphrases in "Futurism":
"From the fact that the object is truly transubstantiated, so that
the most practised eye has some difficulty in discovering it, a
great charm results. The picture which only surrenders itself
slowly seems always to wait until we interrogate it, as though it
reserved an infinity of replies to an infinity of questions " (1912,
in Herbert 1964, 14£). As formulated in semiotic terms in
Jakobson's Prague essay of 1934, "What is Poetry? ", the dis­
tinction between sign and object is essential for the dynamism
of communicative systems:
Why is it necessary to make a special point of the fact that
the sign does not coincide with the object? Because besides
the direct awareness of the identity between sign and object
(A equals At), there is a necessity for the direct awareness of
the inadequacy of that identity (A does not equal At).The
reason this antinomy is essential is that without contradic­
tion there is no mobility of concepts, no mobility of signs,
and the relationship between concept and sign becomes
automatized.Activity comes to a halt, and the awareness of
reality dies out. (1934a, 175.)
Jakobson's partisanship of Futurism is also striking in his last
critical essay of this period, on Dada (see pp. 163-172 below),
written in 1920 from abroad for the pages of the Soviet news­
paper Vestnik teatra [Theatrical Herald]' The first work in
Russian on Dada, it is essentially a review of Richard
INTRODUCTION / xxi
Huelsenbeck's Almanach Dada of 1920, which contained a rep­
resentative sampling of the movement as a whole. Dada is seen,
and rightly so, as one step beyond Futurism.
As an advocate of radical Futurism, Jakobson distinguishes
two types. The first, a true artistic revolution with no holds
barred, "refused to write beauty and art with capital letters" and
admitted the utter relativity of all aesthetic schools. This pure
brand rejected the past point-blank as a result of its "scientific,"
"historically-minded" awareness of the impossibility of any
absolute sanctions on the range of devices in art, and became
the first artistic movement which was "unable to create a
canon." The "other" Futurism-and Jakobson has in mind the
Italians-is, on the contrary, simply the thousand-and-first
"ism," yet another artistic school based on the canonization of
a set of arbitrary and conventional devices. For Jakobson, it was
this transformation of Futurism in Western Europe from an
aesthetic revolt into an "ism" that opened the way for the
appearance of a new radical movement, Dada: "The demand
arose for a new differentiation -'a manifestation parallel to the
relativistic philosophies of the current moment-a "nonax­
iom,'" as . . . Huelsenbeck announced."
Dada arises precisely as a "systemless" aesthetic rebellion,
and Jakobson is perceptive in stressing that Dada makes no
pretense of it own permanence or even aesthetic value, but sim­
ply rejoices in its own being, appealing neither to the past nor
to the future for justification. It is the ultimate manifestation of
the "device laid bare" for its own sake, the device constantly in
conflict with the aesthetic norm and never crystallizing into its
own limited canon. Dada offers nothing new in terms of
devices but is content to appropriate three main principles from
Cubism and Futurism: bruitism (sheer sound, the art of nois­
es), simultanism, and the "new medium," i.e. collage (cf.
Huclscnbcck in Motherwell 1981, xviii). Dada engaged in a
xxii / MY FUTURIST YEARS
free play with aesthetic means without itself becoming an aes­
thetic movement: "Poetry and painting became for Dada a cir­
cus side-show act," as Jakobson puts it. He regards this as the
logical outcome of the total rejection of aesthetics and the posi­
tion it enjoys in society, which is quite often a repressive one.
Ultimately, Jakobson views Dada as a social rebellion only inci­
dentally utilizing aesthetics as a means of attack. And this real­
ly is the main point, namely that Dada rests content with the
continual "laying bare" of devices because it is quite uninterest­
ed in constructing a new aesthetics. As such it becomes noth­
ing but a reflex of the times, neither one thing nor the other.
And as such it is doomed to vanish and gladly accepts that fact;
as Huelsenbeck writes, "the time for Dada has ripened, with
Dada it will ascend, and with Dada it will vanish."
Jakobson's "Dada" is a curious piece. The Futurist in him
enthusiastically greets an aesthetics of continual "laying bare,"
yet there is a lingering doubt that perhaps, after all, it leads
nowhere. Jakobson nicely traces the evolution of this process,
with an hilarious conclusion:
What is important is that, having finished once and for all
with the principle of the legendary coalition of contentless
form and content, through a realization of the violence of
artistic form, the toning-down of pictorial and poetic
semantics, through color and texture as such, we come in
Russia to the blue grass of the first celebrations of October,
and in the West to the unambiguous Dadaist formula: "nous
voulons nous voulons pisser en couleurs diverses." Coloring as
such. Only the canvas is removed....
For Jakobson Dada is simultaneously the ultimate stage in
the evolution of art and a socially-determined, non-aesthetic
manifestation answering the spirit of the times and the crisis of
Western values. The realization that all art is a convention, a
INTRODUCTION / xxiii
realization resulting from a "scientific," i.e. relativistic, dismissal
of earlier formulae such as "in the name of beauty we are creat­
ing a new art," leads to a radical mistrust of all convention and
a valorization of revolutionary form as the ultimate goal of art.
But when confronted by the obvious fact that a continual rev­
olution in art either ceases to be a revolution and becomes a
new order, or ceases to produce art and vanishes, the radical
Futurist simply shrugs his shoulders. Such an argument clearly
fails to answer the elementary question of why the evolving
shifts in artistic conventions, the countless "isms" of the past,
are in any way inferior to newer systems whose very revolt
against convention is just as arbitrary as convention itself.
Except, perhaps, the tautological reply: they are newer. W ithin
that simple reply lies the revolutionary ethos of both Russian
Futurism and Formalism.
III.
The original edition of this book, edited by Bengt Jangfeldt,
was published in Russian in Stockholm Studies in Russian
Literature, a series of the Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis. It
involved archival research of great depth and scope. It was envi­
sioned as a collection of materials the purpose of which was to
insure that Jakobson's works of the Futurist period be accessi­
ble in his native language. Obviously, an English translation has
a different goal, namely a presentation of that legacy to the
English reader who knows no Russian but is interested in the
subject. I would like here to spell out the differences between
the original Russian edition of this book and its English ver­
SlOn.
xxiv I MY FUTURIST Y EARS
The core of the volume (Part One), namely Jakobson's
memoirs as tape-recorded, transcribed, and edited by Bengt
Jangfeldt, remains intact, as does the extant epistolary record
(Part Two). The selection of Jakobson's essays (Part Three) has
been expanded for the benefit of the English reader by the
inclusion of two of Jakobson's seminal works on his favorite
poets of the time, who are often encountered in his memoirs,
Xlebnikov and Majakovskij. The first consists of excerpts from
Jakobson's first major monograph, on Xlebnikov, The Newest
Russian Poetry, which was written in 1919 in Moscow, but pub­
lished in Prague only in 1921,and which falls properly within
the chronological scope of the volume. The second, on
Majakovskij, "On a Generation that Squandered Its Poets," was
written somewhat later, in 1930, in the wake of the poet's sui­
cide, and remains until this day the most important critical
appraisal of the poet's work. It seemed to me essential to
include it in the present volume, in which Majakovskij plays
such a central role. Both of these works were translated by the
late Edward J. Brown of Stanford University.
Certain parts of the first edition have been omitted, in par­
ticular Jakobson's translations into Russian, for obvious reasons.
Jakobson's own poetic output of the time has been truncated
slightly: of the nineteen poems in the original Russian edition,
only fifteen appear here. The omissions consist of some of
Jakobson's juvenilia, which are better read in Russian with a
certain sense of indulgence for the author's age. I have followed
the rubrics of the original edition in presenting the poems that
do appear here, namely: Juvenilia; Futurist Verses; Jocular
Verses; and Verses to Elsa Triolet. Frankly, I find that typology
somewhat artificial, since almost all the poems are full of
humor and represent "occasional poetry" at its best. (The juve­
nile prose piece, "Excursions Around My Room," is a jovial
coda to the poetry.) As a translator, I am pleased by the results
INTRODUCTION /
xxv
I obtained in some of the jocular poems,the originals of which
were written in normative Russian. W hether the versions I
have produced of Jakobson's futurist poems, in particular the
most important one, "Distraction" (see p. 252 below), should
be regarded as translations, transpositions, aberrations, or
entirely independent poems, is an open question. They do,
however, attempt to capture the spirit and rhythm of the orig­
inals.
One thing that remained intact from the first edition is the
unique commentaries Bengt Jangfeldt compiled for the book.
Few scholars have the knowledge and experience to so ably fill
in the gaps in history. They are as fascinating as the text itself
and could,indeed,almost be read independently as a history of
the Russian avant-garde culled from little-known primary
sources. I regard Jangfeldt's commentaries as an unsurpassed
example of this genre of scholarship. W here I have added a
note or two, or clarified something, it was for the sake of the
English reader. One final note: the selection of illustrations
here differs slightly from the first edition. Partly this is because
certain of the illustrations in the original edition were of docu­
ments in Russian that would be of little interest to the English
reader, partly because certain other photographs became avail­
able to me.
The translation of this book was a daunting challenge,given
the diverse nature of the materials and genres represented.
Jakobson's memoirs,based on transcripts of interviews,contain
features of oral speech that are perhaps less grating to the eye
on the page in Russian than in English,but I hope I have suc­
ceeded in rendering them felicitously. Jakobson's essays are
characterized by the idiosyncratic style of his artistic milieu,
which I have tried to render accurately but without too slavish
a literality. His letters posed an enormous challenge, since we
lack the other half of the correspondences,and many references
xxvi / MY FUTURIST YEARS
are elliptical or obscure, but Jangfeldt's commentaries were use­
ful in establishing the context in many cases. Jakobson's letters
to Elsa Triolet were particularly difficult in this regard, given
the intimacy of their relationship, but despite some obscurities,
they remain compelling, indeed fascinating, human documents.
In translating the poems, I tried above all to produce texts that
were equivalents, however inadequate, of the originals, but that
were also readable as English poems. For her help in answering
numerous queries and preventing some terrible blunders, I
should like to thank my dear friend and colleague Irina
Belodedova.
Stephen Rudy
New York University
PR E FAC E / xxvii
P REFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
In his discussion of "Jakobson's Philosophical Background,"
Elmar Holenstein emphasizes the scholar's creative roots:
"Jakobson was not so much a philosopher or a linguist as he
was an aesthete, who had grown up among artists, painters,
and poets. Correspondingly, his earliest and most important
sources of information are to be looked for in the realm of art
and not in philosophy" (1987). Similarly, Vjacheslav V. Ivanov,
in his preface to the Soviet edition of Jakobson's works on
poetics, emphasizes that "in his mould Jakobson was by nature
rebellious, a romantic striving toward the new." Therefore,
Ivanov continues, Jakobson's attempts to create a new poetics
"are linked with the poets of Russian Futurism-Xlebnikov
and Majakovskij-and with those trends in Russian literary
studies which arose to meet this literary experimentation," i. e.
the Russian "Formal School" (1987, 12). The similarity of
Holenstein's and Ivanov's statements is not accidental: the sig­
nificance of modern art for Jakobson's formation as a linguist
is obvious, and he himself repeatedly and resolutely underlined
the deep internal link between the scientific quests of the
young linguists and literary scholars and the creative experi­
ments of contemporary poets and painters. In this regard,
J akobson's personal aquaintance and collaboration with
Majakovskij, Xlebnikov, Pasternak, Malevich, Larionov and
others, is as important as the theoretical closeness.
xxviii / MY FUTURIST YEARS
The present collection of materials is devoted to these first
steps in Jakobson's scholarly path. It covers his "Russian peri­
od" and his close ties to the representatives of Russian avant­
garde art, both visual and verbal. Jakobson's autobiographical
notes, here presented under the title "A Futurian of Science,"
are an important contribution to the scholar's biography. They
are based on tape-recorded conversations I had with him in
1977 and are published here for the first time. Jakobson him­
self was adverse to the word "reminicences"; as K. Pomorska
aptly remarks on his attitude toward this genre: "The element
obviously unacceptable to Jakobson was the 'tense' of this
genre: memoirs belong to the past tense; they push one's life
into the past, thus putting an end to one's biography and, con­
sequently, to one's life" (1987, 4). In many ways, they corre­
spond more to Jakobson's Dialogues with Krystyna Pomorska
(1980/1983), which, while highly autobiographical, are an
attempt to evaluate the significance of avant-garde art and sci­
ence at the beginning of the twentieth century. The correspon­
dences between the two works are explained not only by their
common thematics, but by the fact that Pomorska's and my
conversations with Jakobson were conducted almost simultane­
ously and under the sharp impression that two new publica­
tions had made on him: The Yearbook of the Manuscript Division
of the Pushkin House (M. P. Alekseev et al., eds., 1976)-which
included, among other things, the letters of Kazimir Malevich
to M. V. Matjushin-and the collection The Russian Avant­
Garde (N. Xardzhiev et al., 1976), which contained the first
chapters of Malevich's autobiography. In contradistinction to
Jakobson's Dialogues with K. Pomorska, which concentrate on
his scientific thought and its development, my conversations
with him focused on his links with poets and painters, contacts
that are described rather briefly in Dialogues.
PREFACE / xxix
Agreeing in full with E. Holenstein's statement quoted
above, I decided to include in this collection Jakobson's own
poems, and not only the well-known early transrational verses
from Transrational Boog (1915), but his juvenilia, jocular
poems, and futuristic verses, as well. The fascination of the
schoolboy Jakobson with poetry and his early interest in prob­
lems of versification and the structure of poetic works explains
a great deal in his further development as a scholar.
This collection also contains Jakobson's poems to Elsa
Kagan (later Triolet), who played a most important role in his
biography and to whom he was particularly close in 1916-1917.
Therefore, apart from his letters of a theoretical nature to A. E.
Kruchenyx and M. V. Matjushin, I have included here his
extant letters of 1920-1923 to Elsa Triolet, which cast a new
light both on Jakobson's early years in Prague and on the life of
Majakovskij and the Briks in Moscow. Moreover, these letters
offer rich material for understanding the intimate drama that
formed the basis for Viktor Shklovskij's book Zoo or Letters Not
about Love (1923).
As a matter of fact, the most vivid passages in Jakobson's
reminiscences and letters are devoted to his close friendship
with Elsa and with her older sister Lili and the men surround­
ing her, Osip Brik and Vladimir Majakovskij. In this respect the
present collection supplements a series of publications about
Majakovskij and his closest friends, who, through their talent
and fates, occupied an almost unique place in the history and
mythology of twentieth-century literature: Love is the Heart of
Everything: Correspondence Between Vladimir Majakovskij and
Lili Brik, 1915-1930 (B. Jangfeldt, ed. 1986) and "Dear Uncle
Volodja ...": The Correspondence ofMajakovskij and Elsa Triolet,
1915-1917 (B. Jangfeldt, ed. 1990).
xxx
I MY FUTURIST YEARS
Among the poets mentioned by Jakobson in his "memoirs,"
the chief place is alloted to Majakovskij, Xlebnikov and
Pasternak. It is hardly by chance that it is exactly to these three
poets that he devoted some of his most penetrating individual
studies. His book on Xlebnikov, The Newest Russian Poetry. A
First Sketch (Prague, 1922), was his first schorarly work in gen­
eral, the impact of which can be guaged by the review it
received by the young linguist G.O. Vinokur: "for the first time
the theoretical foundation for all the attempts to establish a sci­
ence of poetry, which marked the life of the Moscovite and
Petrograd philological youth for the last 5-6 years, is offered"
(1921). Jakobson devoted two studies of an entirely different
nature to Majakovskij: one on his prosody, On Czech Verse,
Primarily in Comparison with Russian (Prague, 1923), the other
on the poet's fate, "On a Generation That Squandered Its
Poets" in the collection The Death of Vladimir Majakovskij
(Berlin, 1931). Finally, in 1935, Jakobson analyzed the
metaphoric and metonymic poles in the work of Majakovskij
and Pasternak in his essay "Marginal Notes on the Prose of the
Poet Pasternak," now considered a classic. Pasternak himself
valued this work highly; in a long (unfortunantly lost) letter he
told Jakobson that the essay made an enormous impression on
him and that, after reading it, he "for the first time saw that he
was understood" (see p. 63 below).
Vjacheslav V. Ivanov aptly characterizes Jakobson as "a
romantic striving toward the new." It not by chance that
Jakobson himself speaks of "the united front of science, art, and
literature, of a life rich in new, still unknown values of the
future" (see p. 3 below). He always emphasized his closeness to
Futurism and its significance for his scholarly development; c£,
for example, his letter to V.B. Shklovskij of October 23, 1928:
''Actually, the strength of our science was precisely in the
Futurist promontary of the word 'we'" (Shklovskij 1990, 519).
PREFACE I xxxi
Indeed, the avant-garde nature, the youthfulness of his thought
penetrates all the materials collected here, particularly the auto­
biographical remarks ''A Futurian of Science," which draw a
vivid picture of Jakobson's scientific and life path and his ties to
world literature and art.
After Jakobson's death, Krystyna Pomorska asked me to take
part in the future work on the study of his archive. However,
the concrete idea for the publication of this collection belongs
to Stephen Rudy, who, in 1988, on behalf of the Jakobson
Foundation, commissioned me to edit and publish my conver­
sations with Jakobson and supplement them with other mate­
rials relating to the period. I am deeply obliged to The
Jakobson Foundation for providing me with materials from
Jakobson's archive, as well as for financial support that made it
possible for me to concentrate on my work on this book. In the
course of that work I had numerous occasions to discuss vari­
ous details of Jakobson's biography with Stephen Rudy, who
generously shared both his knowledge and archival materials; it
is to him, first of all, that I should like to express my thanks for
his help and encouragement in the creation of this collection.
For advice and help in compiling the commentaries to this
volume I should also like to thank Vladimir M. Vol'pert,
Vjacheslav V. Ivanov, Vasilij V. Katanjan and Inna Ju. Gens,
Mixail Ju. and Jurij M. Lotman, Tat'jana L. Nikol'skaja,
Aleksandr E. Parnis, Evgenij V. Pasternak and Elena B.
Pasternak, Roman D. Timenchik, Lazar' S. F lejshman,
Natalija F. Fridljand-Kramova, Jelena S. Jangfeldt-Jakubovich,
Ben Hellman, Rein Kruus, Elena and Bengt Samuelson,
Miloshiva Slavlckova, Jan Benedict, and, finally, Professor Peter
Alberg Jensen, who kindly accepted the first, Russian edition of
this collection into the series Stockholm Studies in Russian
Literature.
Bengt Jangfeldt
Stockholm, 1992
PART I
MEMOIRS
MEMOIRS / 3
A F UTURIAN OF S CIENCE
The academic years 1912-1913 and 1913-1914 were for me
years of literary and scholarly maturation. (Since those times
I've become accustomed to think in the framework of acade­
mic years.) In those years it seemed absolutely clear that we
were experiencing a period of cataclysms in the visual arts, in
poetry, and in science, or rather, in the sciences. It was then
that I heard the lectures of a young physicist who had just
returned from Germany and was reporting on Einstein's first
work on the theory of relativity; this was still before the gen­
eral theory of relativity. On the other hand, my impressions of
French artists alternated with those of the emerging Russian
painting, which was partly abstract and then became totally
abstract.
After the French prologue, which for me had as its head the
name of Mallarme-although I had then already familiarized
myself with Rimbaud as well as several other, later poets,­
there followed the discoveries of the latest Russian poetry,
beginning with A Slap in the Face of Public Taste. These were
unforgettable experiences. There clearly emerged a united
front of science, art, literature, and life, full of the unknown
values of the future. It seemed as if a science based on new
principles was being created, a self-sufficient science, opening
4 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
up endless perspectives and introducing into general use new
concepts, which at the time did not seem to fit into the usual
framework of common sense. We had teachers such as Umov
and Xvol'son, atomic physicists whose lectures I heard and
whose books I read.1 The same occurred in every other field.
The thernatics of time and space, so mysterious and head­
spinning, opened up. For us there was no borderline between
Xlebnikov the poet and Xlebnikov the mathematical mystic.
By the way, when I visited Xlebnikov, who was the great
renewer of the poetic word, he immediately began telling me
about his mathematical quests and meditations.
These same years just before World War I brought with
them a passion for all sorts of evenings of lectures and discus­
sions. A series of such discussions were connected with the
so-called crisis of the theater, with problems of theatrical
innovation: the experiments of Craig and Vaxtangov, Tairov,
Evreinov, and Meyerhold were debated passionately. Every
production, whether in Moscow or Petersburg, evoked agita­
tion and arguments. There were as well, of course, such lec­
tures and discusssions on literary, philosophical, and popular
social topics.
The evenings of the Futurists brought together an amazing
number of the public: the Large Hall of the Polytechnical
Museum was completely packed! The public's reaction to them
was various: many came for the sake of scandal, but a broad
segment of the student public awaited the new art, wanted the
new word (by the way-and this is interesting-they weren't
particularly interested in prose). This was a time when readers
gravitated almost exclusively towards poetry. If anyone from
our wider circle of acquaintances had asked what was happen­
ing in Russian literature, there would have been references to
the Symbolists, especially Blok and Belyj, partly, perhaps, to
MEMOIRS / 5
Annenskij or to those poets who followed the Symbolists, but
no one would hardly have recalled Gor'kij; his work seemed
already completed by 1905. Sologub's late prose was in great
disfavor, and the one work people recognized was The Petty
Demon-this was also literature already three years old-and
his short stories. People read Remizov, but somehow just in
passing, and in general thought that the main thing was poet­
ry, and that poetry had a genuinely new word to say. Apart
from these large public evenings there were many closed
groups, circles, and private gatherings, where the main place
was alloted to the new word.
.
.
.
I saw Majakovskij for the first time in 1911. However strange
it my seem, the various snapshots from my memory often
coincide with memorable dates in the poet's own biography.
At the time I personally was much closer to artistic circles
than to writers and poets. But I had two friends. One of them
was my schoolmate at the Lazarev Institute of Oriental
Languages, Isaak Kan,2 who very early on had begun looking
for new forms in painting. The epoch of abstract painting was
still in the future, but problems of emancipating color and
volume were already being addressed. The French painters
were seductive. People already paid homage to the names of
Matisse and Cezanne. Although Picasso's canvases already
adorned the walls of Shchukin's private mansion, we did not
have entrance there and learned about Picasso a bit later. But
there were others. In the Tretjakov Gallery there hung several
important new French artists-that is, new for that time-of
Post-Impressionism. We went from a fascination with the
Impressionists precisely to Post-Impressionism, which,
6 I MY FUTURIST YEARS
actually, carried within it a rejection of Impressionism. We
were fascinated by Cezanne and van Gogh, and also-no less
than van Gogh-by Gauguin and a series of other innovators.
Another friend of mine was Sergej Bajdin,3 a painter who
was in the close circle of admirers and students of Mixail
Larionov. (In the last years of Larionov's life, when I met with
him in Paris, he recalled in detail-he had a phenomenal
memory-Bajdin in particular as one of the new abstract
artists, who already in 1913, at the time of the exhibitions
"Target" and "No. 4,"4 was an honest to goodness, talented
abstract artist.
It was with Bajdin and Kan that I went to the funeral of
Serov.5 We still liked Serov as we had before, despite our ada­
ment hostility toward both the World of Art and the Union of
Russian Artists. We went together to the opening of the
World of Art exhibition in January 1911, where there were
two new pictures by Serov, the novelty of which aroused both
public enthusiasm and bewilderment. One was "The Rape of
Europa"; the other-a nude portrait of Ida Rubenstein.6 We
stood before these canvases amidst a crowd of visitors who
were debating and for the most part condemning them.
Among them was a portly society lady, the wife of the
Georgian Prince Gugunava, an artist I knew who was either a
relative or in-law of my close friends the Zhebrovskij family'?
I shall never forget the loud grumbling of the Princess: "She's
shameless! It would be one thing if she had something to
show, but she is nothing but a scrawny cat!"
At the funeral, as was usually the case at the time, there
were huge crowds of students which followed the procession
right to the cemetery. We had been at the home of Serov,
where he was laid out. His unusually beautiful profile in the
coffin made a tremendous impression on me. The procession
MEMOI RS I 7
got under way, and when we reached the cemetery I suddenly
heard a fresh, stentorian voice. We were standing rather far
away from the grave and the family of the artist. We asked who
was speaking and were told that it was one of Serov's best stu­
dents. It was Majakovskij: he remembered Serov with great
emotion and vividness and solemnly swore that what Serov
was unable to accomplish would be realized by the younger
generation.s Until then I had not heard of Majakovskij.
The next time I saw Majakovskij was at the Knave of
Diamonds exhibition at the beginning of 1912.9 I recall that I
did not recognize Serov's student: there entered a dishevelled
young man in a shabby velvet jacket who immediately began
wrangling with the organizers of the exhibition. He was liter­
ally thrown out of the place. They were afraid there would be
a scandal. The organizers of the exhibition rather stunned me
and grated on my nerves: after all, it seemed, they were artists
and innovators, why were they behaving like such cowards? Of
these artists I knew Adol 'f Mil'man the best; he was the older
brother of a great friend of mine in those days, Semen
Mil 'man. I asked him what was the matter. ''Ah, they're noth­
ing but hooligans," he replied. Adol 'f Mil'man was a land­
scape artist, somewhat in the style of Derain. He belonged to
the Knave of Diamonds, was himself skeptical toward
Cubism, but introduced me to everyone who was in the Knave
of Diamonds then-Mashkov, Konchalovskij, Lentulov,
Jakulov and others. By the way, my acquaintance with them
was quite superficial at the beginning.10
A while later I saw Majakovskij together with a rather
heavy-set man who wore a lorgnette. This turned out to be
Burljuk. I saw them at the concert of Raxmaninov that
Majakovskij was later to describe in his autobiography.ll I
recall how he stood hy the wall with an obviously pained look
8 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
of boredom on his face. This time I recognized him. His face
was astonishing, and I studied it closely.
Soon after this the Knave of Diamonds organized a debate,
which Majakovskij attended, on February 25, 1912. This was,
it seems, his first appearance at a public debate.12 The debate
made a tremendous impression on me, since it was the first
time I absolutely sensed all those ferments, all those new ques­
tions of art, which had ripened and become, as it were, a new
organic part of me, dear and indissoluble.
Then, in late summer, A Game in Hell appeared. I immedi­
ately got this poem-brochure and tried to grasp it.13 It struck
me-struck me by the fact that at the time I did not have the
slightest idea how innovative verse could be. To a significant
degree it was parodic versification, a parody of Pushkin's verse.
I was immediately thrilled by it. At the time I knew nothing
about Xlebnikov and hadn't even heard of Kruchenyx. But in
our small circle it was at this time that we began to have con­
versations about the appearance of Russian Futurism.
I was already fairly well-informed about Italian Futurism,
since my teacher of French language at the Lazarev Institute
was Genrix Edmundovich Tastevin.14 He and I were on very
friendly terms. I really didn't need to study the French lan­
guage, since I had spoken French since early childhood. Instead
of the homework assignments he gave my schoolmates, he gave
me special topics, in keeping with what I was interested in. It
was actually in this way, I may be so bold as to say, that my
scholarly interest in literature began.
The first topic Tastevin had me write on was Mallarme's
poem "L'Azur." Thibaudet 's book on Mallarme had just been
published in Paris, and copies were available in Moscow.15 It
made a great impression on me by its interpretation of poems,
by its attempts to get inside the structure of poems. I was
MEMOIRS / 9
completely unused to this. In general I must say that in the
beginning of my studies at the Lazarev Institute (which, actu­
ally, was an institution for instruction in Eastern languages for
the middle school through lyceum level), I thought that I
would study natural sciences (my father was a chemical engi­
neer and inclined me in that direction), perhaps astronomy or
geology. I vacillated all the time, but never considered the
possibility of studying anything other than science. Still in
childhood, when I was asked what I wanted to be, I would
answer: ''An inventor, and if that doesn't work out,-a writer."
Becoming a writer struck me as easy. In the third class I edit­
ed a lithographed journal called Student's Thought and wrote
poems and prose for it,16 but to become an inventor was what
attracted me the most. From the natural sciences, sometime in
the fourth class, I went on to a fascination with literature, in
particular poetry, and decided that I should become a literary
scholar. But everything I encountered in works on literature
instantly seemed to me to be grossly insufficient and entirely
not what was really needed. And it seemed to me absolutely
essential for the study of literature to immerse oneself in the
minutiae of language.
Thus I decided to become a linguist; I was fourteen or fif­
teen years old at the time. Mter having borrowed my uncle's
copy, I finally bought my own copy of Dal " s explanatory dic­
tionary and read it continuously. I also acquired Potebnja's Notes
on Russian Grammar and Thought and Language, and in gener­
al turned more and more in the direction of linguistics.
Tastevin was a charming man and related to me in a very
cordial way. He was the secretary of the Symbolists' journal
The Golden Fleece, a cultural activist of the type of the
Bohemian intelligentsia, hardly a typical teacher-pedant of the
time. I recall how once we were walking down one of the
1 0 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
school's corridors-the times were reactionary, with strict
pressure exerted on students and teachers alike, with a whole
series of governmental bans imposed on us. W hile we were
discussing the Symbolists, a superviser came up to us and said:
"Is it possible that you do not know that it is forbidden for stu­
dents to walk in this corridor!" Tastevin became silent. I was
terribly offended.
After working on the poem "L'Azur," I wanted to write
about one of Mallarme's sonnets that Thibaudet considered
the most difficult, "Une dentelle s'abolit." As a first step I
brought Tastevin my translation of the sonnet into Russian
verse, intentionally diverging from the classical versification of
the original, and then wrote a long analysis of the poem.17 This
was at the very beginning of 1913, already after my first work
on Trediakovskij.
Part of the background to this is that in 1910 Andrej Belyj's
book Symbolism appeared. It contained several essays on verse,
one in particular analyzing the strophic arrangement of
Pushkin's "Ne poj, krasavica, pri mne . . . " [Do not sing, oh
beauty, before me . . . J and another on the history of the
Russian iambic tetrameter. These experiments fascinated me
extremely. I was sick at the time with jaundice, and, lying in
bed with a fever, I decided, under the influence of these exper­
iments, to draft an analysis of Trediakovskij's verse. I preserved
this draft quite by accident.18 It was a statistical analysis of
Trediakovskij's long poems according to the model of Belyj's
investigations and was meant to advance the thesis that among
Russian poets of the eighteenth century the main deviations
from the stress scheme-the main "half-stresses" as Belyj
labelled them-that is, the main unstressed syllables in down­
beats of the verse, occur in the fourth syllable, whereas in the
nineteenth century the main deviations occur in the second
MEMOIRS / 1 1
syllable. I demonstrated, supplementing Belyj's argument, that
in the case of Trediakovskij both types of "half-stresses" are
developed to an extreme degree, that is, as it seemed to me
then, the beginning of the establishment of a definite metrical
type was preceded by a chaotic period in which both types
were mixed,19
At the very end of 1912 A Slap in the Face of Public Taste
appeared, and on one of the very first days of the new year I
settled down to read this collection.20 It was one of my very
strongest artistic experiences. The collection opened with the
poetry of Xlebnikov, and it was his work that fascinated me the
most. I learned everything there by heart: "Snake Train," "I and
E," "On the Island of G sel," and the various smaller poems
published under the title "Przheval 'skij's Horse," as well as the
play "A Maiden God."21 All of these made a simply staggering
impression on me: his understanding of the word, of verbal
mastery, corresponded to what I was dreaming of at the time.
It was at the same moment that I first encountered Picasso's
work, during a debate at the Knave of Diamonds where
Burljuk showed slides of his pictures on the screen.22 Everyone
was shouting, the majority out of indignation or mockery.
These pictures overcame me even more when, along with
Mil'man, I went to Shchukin's mansion, where they were
hung in a special room, surrounded by African sculptures,
which, it is said, Picasso himself selected.
In January 1913 there was a scandal, when a madman
named Balashov slashed with a knife or razor Repin's picture
"Ivan the Terrible and His Son" in the Tret 'jakov Gallery (in
Stalinist times the picture was jokingly called "Ivan the
Terrible Administers First Aid to His Son" ). There was a lot
of commotion about this. There were accusations against the
Futurists and the occasion was used to launch an attack on
1 2 / MY FUTURIS T YEARS
them. The Futurists, of course, had had nothing to do with
the escapade. It was then that the Knave of Diamonds orga­
nized a debate.23 At the debate Repin himself got up and
spoke, saying: "It is disgraceful to attack an artist!" He attract­
ed the audience's deepest sympathy; he was an excellent
speaker. The main speaker was the poet Maksimilian
Voloshin. And suddenly Majakovskij made a sharp speech; he
always assumed a very sharp tone in relation to the members
of the Knave of Diamonds, whom he considered out-and-out
compromisers between Cubism and much more conservative
art. On the fact that Voloshin had been invited to speak, he
said: "There's something about this in Prutkov's poetry." (In
general he loved quoting Prutkov.) Then he read the poem
about the priest's wife who called in a lackey because a bug
had fallen on her: "If a bug crawls on your neck,! Crush it
yourself, don't have a lackey do it." Reciting these ambivalent
lines strikingly to loud applause, he compared the Knave of
Diamonds to someone who lives in doubt and, unable to
resolve it, calls for the help of a substitute who lacks any rela­
tion to the new art.24
These were impassioned times. There was a second
debate on February 24, 1913. I remember it quite well. They
didn't want to allow Majakovskij to speak. Various members
of the audience took an active part in the discussion, some
for, some against, but they still wouldn't let him in. Then he
appeared at another door of the Poly technical Museum and
everyone started shouting. His voice was strikingly stentorian,
yet at the same time extraordinarily sympathetic, hypnotiz­
ing one in his favor, a voice of colossal range. He spoke
passionately in defence of the new poetry, in particular, of
Xlebnikov.25
I recall that at the time two poems by Majakovskij in A Slap
MEMOIRS I 1 3
t n the Face of Public Taste particularly struck Kan, namely
"Night" and "Morning." He would read them with great suc­
cess to young ladies, pretending that they were his own. But
they didn't affect me very much. 1 would harangue him that
the poet of the future, the true Futurian, was Xlebnikov. The
others made on me a much weaker impression. But 1 knew by
heart the poem by Benedikt Livshic published there. 1 didn't
like Kandinskij at all; as a matter of fact, he later protested
against having been included, declaring that while he was in
favor of innovation, he was against scandals. 1 was already
acquainted with his book On the Spiritual in Art, which
seemed to me to be too closely linked to German art of the
recent past and its foggy,abstract slogans. 1 was terribly proud
of the manifesto A Slap in the Face of Public Taste itself. Mter
this 1 persistendy turned my attention to anything that
Xlebnikov wrote.26
During Christmas vacations 1 would always go to Peters­
burg. 1 regularly went to the Union of Youth exhibitions; they
had one practically every year. 1 recall standing on the landing of
the staircase,and right in front of the entrance to the exhibition
there were several artists-Shkol ' nik, Rozanova, and
Boguslavskaja, with whom 1 later became friends, along with
her husband Puni. She was quite beautiful at the time and quite
elegant in her own way. Someone said: "I wonder whom
Pushkin would be with if he were alive today?" She answered
with a confident,enthusiastic voice: "He'd be with us,of course!"
It was a time of fierce confrontations and challenges,but for
the youth of the time they were equated not so much with the
reactionary artists as with the police,since the police were con­
standy interfering. But even though the police interfered,they
didn't always like those for whom they were interfering. W hen
Bal 'mont came back from abroad,a small group of us went to
1 4 / MY FUTURIST Y E AR S
listen to him recite his poems.27 He declamed his poems in an
unforgiveably flaccid and tedious manner: "Thirteen years!
Thirteen years! Is that really so much?" and so on. Semen
Mil'man whistled, and a policeman detained him. He wanted
to issue a summons, which would have been dangerous, since
Mil'man was still a Gymnasium student and he was not
allowed to leave his house at all at night under the current
regulations. Kan and I tried to vindicate him in every way pos­
sible with the policeman. The evening had been organized by
the Ladies Society. We said: "But why? People applaud, they
express their opinion. It's possible to applaud, right? Then why
can't one whistle?" Suddenly the policeman, having threatened
Mil'man enough, said: "You know, if I weren't in uniform, I'd
whistle too. I'm so sick of these members without members
and of those who applaud them!"
I recall quite well the evening in honor of Bal'mont, who
had recently returned from abroad, organized by the Society of
Free Aesthetics in the building of the Moscow Literary Circle
on May 7, 1913. I absolutely wanted to attend this meeting,
but it was forbidden for schoolboys in uniform to attend such
gatherings. In general, schoolboys, who were required to wear
uniforms, were threatened with a whole host of rules and reg­
ulations. At the time there was a joke going around on this
score. There was a lecturer named Ermilov, who gave lectures
on all sorts of "liberating" topics. In particular, he had a lecture
entitled "When Will the Real Day Come?" after Dobroljubov's
famous article, and on the posters there was a warning that
students would be denied admission. Someone added sarcasti­
cally: "When will the real day come; students in uniform are
forbidden to attend." So we actually took off our uniforms. I
borrowed from one of my cousins a civilian jacket-I still
didn't even own one-and went to the gathering in honor of
MEMO I RS / 1 5
Bal'mont.
Someone had told me ahead of time that Majakovskij
would be speaking at the meeting.28 He spoke in an excited
and effective manner, with an highly expressive word-order:
"Konstantin Dmitrievich, you have heard words of welcome in
the name of your friends, now hear your enemies' welcome.
There were times when everyone repeated 'Rock, 0 swing' and
so on, we all lived with this estate poetry, but its time has gone,
and now"-and he began to read excerpts from his urban
poems, if my memory doesn't fail me, from "Noises, Noiselets,
and Noisiks." "You have," he said, "boring repetitions-'Love,
love, love, love, love, love,' whereas we have"-and here he
recited Xlebnikov's "Ljubxo," with its heaps of neologisms
based on the same root. In response to his scathing attacks
there followed a rebuke by Brjusov: "We came to welcome
Konstantin Dmitrievich, not to judge him. " Bal'mont himself
answered with reconciliatory verses (which, by the way, he later
gave the autograph of to Majakovskij) to the effect that "we are
both in the azure," that is to say, that they were both sons of
poetry. When Majakovskij spoke, there were a lot of catcalls.
Among those booing were two people who later became close
members of Majakovskij's entourage. I knew them personally
and defiantly clapped throughout before their eyes.29
.
.
.
I made Xlebnikov's acquaintance at the end of December 1913.
I had decided it was imperative that we meet and talk. I had
an incomparable admiration for him.
The second almanac A TrapforJudges had already come out.
At the time I borrowed a copy of the rare first issue of A Trap
from some friends and began reading it.'O I had figured that it
1 6 / MY FUTU RIST Y EA RS
didn't mean much to them, but they asked for it back and I had
to return it. The first TrapforJudges astounded me, and when I
read Gorodeckij's review of the second Trap, in The Impres­
sionists' Studio, in 1910, Xlebnikov's poem "Incantation by
Laughter" was cited there in its entirety and simply stunned
me)1
Xlebnikov rented an apartment somewhere at the end of the
world, at a place called something like Kamenoostrovskie
Peski. I recall that as I was looking for his apartment there was
a raw chill in the air, penetrating even for a Moscovite, so that
I had to hold my handkerchief to my nose the whole time. The
author of "Laughter" had no telephone, and I had come unan­
nounced. He wasn't at home, but I asked them to tell him that
I would return the next morning. The next day, December 30,
1913, I turned up at his place, along with a special copy I had
made for him of a collection of excerpts I had compiled at the
Rumjancev Museum from various collections of incantations,
some transrational, some half-transrational. A part of them had
been taken from Saxarov's anthology: songs about demons,
incantations, and children's counting-out rhymes and tales as
well. Xlebnikov immediately began to look at them with undi­
vided attention, and soon was to use them in his poem ''A
Night in Galicia," where the mermaids "are reading Saxarov."32
In the meantime Kruchenyx came in. He had brought from
the typographer the first, just published copies of Roar/33 The
author gave me one, with the following dedication: " V.
Xlebnikov to Roman O. Jakobson, who has established our
kinship with the Sun Maidens and the Bald Mountain, in the
sign of coming Conflicts." This was related, he explained, both
to the verbal conflicts of the Futurists and to bloody martial
battles. Such was his dedication.
M E MO IRS / 1 7
I hastened to share with Xlebnikov my own premature
reflections on the word as such, as well as the sound as such,
that is, as a basis for transrational poetry. The response to these
discussions with Xlebnikov, as well as to ones I had soon after
with Kruchenyx, was their joint manifesto ''The Letter as
Such."34 In reply to my bluntly posed question as to which
Russian poets he liked, Xlebnikov answered: "Griboedov and
Aleksej Tolstoy." This is quite understandable, if one recalls
such poems as "Marquise Dessaix" and "Seven." W hen I asked
him about Tjutchev, he responded with praise but without
great enthusiasm.
I asked Xlebnikov whether he had ever been a painter, and
he showed me his early diaries, which were about seven years
old. There were various signs drawn in colored pencil.
"Experiments in colored speech," he explained in passing.
Aleksej Eliseevich Kruchenyx and I immediately became
fast friends, and we soon began a lively correspondence.
Unfortunately, many of the letters were lost, including all of
his letters to me. We frequently wrote one another on theoret­
ical topics. I recall that he once wrote me about transrational
poetry: "Transrational poetry is a good thing, but it's like mus­
tard-one's appetite can't be satisfied with mustard alone." He
valued only the poetry of Xlebnikov in a genuine way, but not
all of it. He wasn't interested in Majakovskij.36
Kruchenyx would come to visit me in Moscow. At the time
he rented an apartment somewhere in Petersburg, and he
invited me over one time. He lived in poverty, and the landla­
dy brought in two pancakes. He cut off half for me: "Try it,
you'll see, it's not harmful. You know, as they say: 'The old
lady 's not harmfuL'"
Later Kruchenyx and I together published Zaumnaja gniga
('Transrational Boog'). The last part of the title was from gniga
1 8 / MY F UT URIST YEARS
('nit '); he would become offended if anyone called it kniga
('book'). By the way, it's not true that it came out in 1916.
Kruchenyx put the date 1916 so that it would be a book of the
future. But it actually appeared earlier; in any event, all the
work on it was done in 1914, and I wrote my part before the
war had begun,37
Kruchenyx would often have quite unexpected ideas, unex­
pected mischievous comparisons, and he had a colossal sense
of humor. He declaimed poetry and parodied it remarkably.
W hen I visited him in Moscow, shortly before his death, when
he had already reached the age of eighty, he still acted out his
unpublished poems superbly, using a chair as a prop, changing
his intonation and pronunciation, piling on various amusing
verbal plays. He was very pleased by my visits; it was apparent
that he cherished his Futurist past and his collaborators.38
That morning at Xlebnikov's, I asked him if he would be
free to celebrate the New Year: "May I invite you to join me?"
He eagerly agreed. So we went, the three of us-Xlebnikov,
Kan and I-to the Stray Dog. The place was packed. I was
struck by the fact that it wasn't at all like the Moscow taverns:
there was something Petersburgian, something a bit more
affected, a bit more made-up, even slick. I went to wash my
hands, and a young man turned to me and asked, with a certain
foppish courtesy: "Wouldn't you like to powder yourself?" He
had with him a little book with powdered pages one could rip
out. "You know, it's hot, and it's quite unpleasant when one's
face shines. Here, try it!" And we all powdered ourselves with
the little book's pages for a laugh.
We sat all three at the table and chatted. Xlebnikov wanted
to write down someone's address, and at Kan's request he
' wrote a quatrain in his notebook, which he then instantly
crossed out. It was a description of the Stray Dog, the walls of
M E M OIR S / 1 9
which had been painted by Sudejkin and others. I recall one
line: "Sudejkin's vaults hang aloft." This is again the same
motif that entered into A Game in Hell ; later one finds in
Majakovskij's "Hymn to a Judge"-the "vaults of laws." The
verbal link between Sudejkin and sudja (,judge') offered the
occasion for the pun. Xlebnikov also wrote down for me a
variant of two or three lines from "Incantation by Laughter."
A young, elegant lady came up to us and asked: "Viktor
Vladimirovich, people say different things about you: some­
that you are a genius; others-that you are mad. What is the
truth?" Xlebnikov smiled somewhat transparently and quietly,
moving only his lips, slowly answered: "I think neither the one,
nor the other." She brought one of his books-I think it was
Roar/-and asked him to sign it. He quickly became serious,
thought for a moment, then painstakingly wrote: "I don't know
to whom, I don't know for what."
People started calling out for him to read; soon everyone
joined in. At first he refused, but we talked him into it, and he
read "The Grasshopper" in a very low voice, but at the same
time quite audibly.
It was quite crowded. The walls and the people pressed all
around. We drank several bottles of strong, sickly-sweet
Barzac. We had arrived there quite early, when there were still
hardly any people, and left around dawn.
My admiration for Xlebnikov grew and grew. This was one
of the most impetuous impressions of a person I've had in my
life, one of three absorbing sensations of having unexpectedly
encountered a genius. First there was Xlebnikov, a year later
Nikolaj Sergeevich Trubetzkoy, and some three decades later,
Claude Levi-Strauss. In the case of the latter two it was a first
encounter with a stranger, of a few words let drop almost by
chance that I h app ened to hear. In the case of Xlebnikov, I had
2 0 / MY FUTU RIST YEA RS
already read him and had been astounded by the experience, but
suddenly in the quiet of a New Year's celebration I saw him as
someone completely different and as someone inconceivably,
indivisibly linked to everything that I had found in reading him.
He was, to put it briefly, the greatest world poet of our century.
.
.
.
Those of my schoolmates at the Lazarev Institute who had a
passion for literature and culture were quite interested in the
manifestos of Marinetti that had recently appeared. We were
acquainted with them through Tastevin and through the
newspapers, despite their lambasting of the Futurists, which
we considered typical of conservative journalism, whereas
Futurism attracted us as a living movement. At this time
Tastevin published a book about Futurism that contained
translations of Marinetti's manifestos and negotiated with him
about his coming to Russia.40
Marinetti arrived at the end of January, 1914. And we were
ready for him-if not to "throw rotten eggs," as Larionov pro­
posed,41 then in any event to greet him with open hostility.
Marinetti was a great diplomat and knew how to promote
himself in certain segments of the public. He spoke French
with a strong Italian accent, but quite well. I heard him speak
on two or three occasions. He was a limited person, with an
enormous temperament, who knew how to read effectively but
superficially. But none of this charmed us. He simply didn't
understand the Russian Futurists.
Xlebnikov was profoundly against him, as was Larionov at
first. Then Larionov and Marinetti began to drink together.
They drank because they couldn't understand each other's lan­
, guage. Larionov simply showed him his paintings and his own
drawings and those of his collaborators.
MEMOI RS / 2 1
I shall never forget one of Marinetti's appearances. Discus­
sion was conducted in French, rather sluggishly. The conversa­
tion was exclusively on the topic of Italian Futurism, of its
relation to the Italian literary tradition and to the French. This
all dragged on somehow. Marinetti was very polite, continued
the discussion. But Larionov got fed up listening to it all, even
the moreso since he didn't understand a thing, and said to
Marinetti: "Let's go have a drink!" But Marinetti didn't speak a
word of Russian. Then a brilliant idea occurred to Larionov,
and he flicked his fingers on his throat-which in Russian is
"an invitation to pour something behind the collar"-but
Marinetti, of course, had no idea what it meant. Then Larianov
said: "What an idiot! Even this he doesn't understand!" He
thought the gesture was internationa1.42
After this we all went to drink at the Alpine Rose, a
German-Russian restaurant not far from Kuzneckij Most.
There we sat, drinking vodka. They needed me, since practi­
cally none of the Russians spoke French, and I acted as a sort
of interpreter.43
Marinetti struck up a conversation with me and said:
"Ecoutez, ne pensez pas-j'aime la Russie, j'aime les russes, je
pense que les femmes russes sont les plus belles du monde, par
exemple"-and he named Natal'ja Krandievskaja, the wife of
Aleksej Tolstoj, and someone else-"et je me comprends dans
les femmes. Mais je dois dire que les poetes russes ne sont pas
des futuristes et qu'il n'y a pas de futurisme en eux." He asked
me whom I considered to be a Futurist. I replied-Xlebnikov,
to which Marinetti responded that he was a poet who wrote in
the stone age, not a poet who knew our time. I answered with
all the impertinence I could summon up, being still a child but
already a Futurist: "Vous le dites, parce que vous vous com­
prenez dans les fe m mes mais pas dans les poemes."
22 / MY FUTUR IS T YEARS
He reacted quite cordially to this and later send me a copy
of his book Zang-Tumb-Tuum from Italy with a warm dedica­
tion. Since I was then writing poems under the pseudonym
Aljagrov,44 he sent me the book under that name.
Then Majakovskij entered. There was a free place near me,
and he sat down. He asked me: ''Are you a Stroganovite?" (that
is, a student from the Stroganov School of Painting), since we
students from the Lazarev Institute had somewhat similar uni­
forms, with gold buttons and so on. Conversation turned to
the topic of Larionov, and he said to me: "We all went through
the school of Larionov. This is important, but one goes
through school only once." So that it was clear he was cutting
himself off somewhat from Larionov.
Majakovskij offered me a cigarette, and I managed some­
how to brush against the box, and the cigarettes scattered on
the floor. I started picking them up. He said: "Never mind,
never mind, my friend, we' ll buy new ones." This was my first
brief conversation with Majakovskij. But we somehow
already-both he and I-considered ourselves acquainted.
The atmosphere in the Alpine Rose was very friendly.
W hen we were getting ready to leave there was a parting toast,
and someone asked: "Will you come to visit us again soon?"
Marinetti answered: "No, there will be a great war," and said
that "we will be together with you against the Germans." I
recall how Goncharova, quite strikingly, raised her glass and
said: "To our meeting in Berlin!"
In 1913 Malevich paid me a visit. What prompted him to do
so, whether we had exchanged opinions before this, whether
he had heard about my views and school-boy experiments
M EMOIRS / 2 3
from someone, or whether we had run across each other
before, I can't recall. But I remember that we met in the room
that our servant, following tradition, called the "nursery." I was
a student at the Lazarev Institute, sixteen or seventeen years
old, and my brother, also a student at the Lazarev, was five
years younger than me.
Malevich spoke to me about his gradual departure from rep­
resentational to abstract art. There was not an abyss between
these two concepts. It was a question of a nonrepresentational
relation to representationality and of a representational relation
to nonrepresentational thematics-to the thematics of surface,
color, and space. And this corresponded profoundly-this he
already knew, in general outline, about me-to my thoughts
regarding, for the most part, language, poetry, and poetic lan­
guage.
We had a discussion, and then he said to me: "I am paint­
ing new pictures, nonrepresentational ones. Let's go to Paris in
the summer, and you can give lectures and explain these pic­
tures at their exhibition."45 Partly he made this proposition
because he didn't speak French, but moreover, because he
trusted me as a theoretician more than he trusted himself,
despite all my naiVete at the time.
I lived in Lubjanskij Thruway, in the same building where
Majakovskij later lived.46 The Polytechnical Museum, which
had a large auditorium for public lectures, was quite near-by. It
was there I fir st heard the Futurists, as well as a whole series of
foreigners who came to Moscow to lecture. It was around the
Polytechnical Museum that I usually took walks and thought
up my own declarations and manifestos, which I wrote for
myself alone: a declaration of the emancipated word, and then,
the following step, of the emancipated verbal sound. (I had
several larKc notcbooks with my theses and declarations, but
2 4 / MY FUTURI S T Y E A R S
they all were lost when the Germans invaded Czechoslovakia.)
The theme was that the verbal sound could have more in
common with nonrepresentational painting than with music.
This topic vividly interested me both then and much later: the
question of the relation of word and sound, the extent to
which the sound retains its kinship with the word, and the
extent to which the word breaks down for us into sounds-and
further, the question of the relation between poetic sounds
and the notation for those sounds, that is, letters. I was not in
agreement when after "The Word as Such" there followed
"The Letter as Such"; for me it was "the sound as such."
This brought me closer to Malevich, who in one of his let­
ters published in The Yearbook of the Pushkin House addresses
this topic directly.47 This is a reflection not only of our earli­
est conversations, but also of my visit to him in Kuncevo in
the summer of 1915, when I was already a student at the uni­
versity.48 In Kuncevo he was living with a friend, the artist
Morgunov.
I visited Malevich, at his invitation, together with
Kruchenyx. We had dinner. Then there transpired a scene that
amazed me. Malevich was terrified of having anyone find out
what his new works were like. He talked a lot about them, but
refused to show his new works. Kruchenyx then made a joke
that Malevich and Morgunov were so afraid of openness, so
afraid that their inventive secrets might be recognized and
stolen, that they painted in total darkness. As a matter of fact,
the blinds were drawn!
I had another meeting with Malevich. This was at
Matjushin's apartment in Petrograd, probably at the end of
1915. The conversation involved some sort of discontent, some
sort of split in avant-garde circles, though the issue was muted
by terminology. The question of terminology, however, did not
M E M OIRS
I
25
interest me; what interested m e was that there b e no compro­
mises. They spoke about Majakovskij as a great poet, but as a
poet of compromise, a poet on the border between Impres­
sionism and Futurism. Majakovskij seemed unacceptable to
this entire group. Burljuk, Majakovskij and Livshic seemed to
them to represent some sort of right wing.49 Apart from
Matjushin and Malevich, Kruchenyx and myself, Filonov was
also at this meeting; although he was not a nonrepresenta­
tional artist, one found in his work significant structural
affinities. They asked me to recite my transrational verses, and
the artists-both Filonov and Malevich-approved of them
greatly, precisely for the fact that they diverged even more
strongly from every-day speech than Kruchenyx's "dyr bul
shchyl. "50
My letter to Kruchenyx with the enclosure of a poem that
is an indirect satire on Majakovskij is linked to the meeting
just described.5 1 Kruchenyx had quite a few of my poems,
which were for the most part transrational. Two are printed in
Transrational Boog, and one was published several years later in
a collection entitled Zaumniki ('Transrationalists').52 The lat­
ter were verses of an almost propagandistic, ad-like character.
But there were also poems on the verge of transrationalism,
and I recall how Kruchenyx criticized them. There was, for
instance, the line: "Ten' blednotelogo telefona" ('The shadow of a
pale-bodied telephone'). Kruchenyx said: "No, no, that bled­
notelogo ('pale-bodied') is too old-fashioned." I immediately
changed it to "ten ' melotelogo telefona" ('the shadow of a
chalk-bodied telephone').
I was very much to Matjushin's liking. I remember well his
large apartment, where on the shelves and chests of drawers
stood his sculptures. These were sculptures made from roots,
from half-f()ssilizcd branches that he had found by the
26 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
seashore, transrational sculptures, practically unworked. He
was a dreamer-organizer and a very enterprising man, with a
multiplicity of various plans.
I was quite fascinated by the theme of a completely trans­
formed perspective, transformed by the treatment of the parts
of an object that remained. And then another problem fasci­
nated me, one that arose very strongly and very early in
Russian art, the theme of collage. It is quite difficult to say
what came about under the influence of Western stimuli, and
what arose independently in both cases, or even what passed
from Russian art to the West. An example of the latter is
undoubtedly constructivist architecture; although it practically
was not realized in the form of buildings, its entire thematics
and problematics, all the models and drafts, were there.
It was a very unusual epoch, with an exceptionally large
number of gifted people. And it was a time when, for various
reasons, the youth of the day suddenly became the law-givers.
We didn't feel ourselves to be beginners. It seemed quite nat­
ural that we, the boys in the Moscow Linguistic Circle, should
ask ourselves the question: "How should one transform lin­
guistics?" The same thing occurred in all other fields.
For me the connection to art, to which I didn't have any
active, actual relation, where I was only an observer, was very
important. In general, what we today wisely call interdiscipli­
nary cooperation has played a very great role in my life. I always
had to look from this point of view: what is different in lan­
guage? What does this not correspond to in poetry? As I see it
now, this is what brought me to the attention of several artists,
Malevich in particular. When I read his notes, I see how
strongly our conversations affected him, and how he, from his
own, artistic side, began to think about what did not appear to
be painting, and what, at the same time, was incomparably
closer to painting than music.s4
MEMOIRS
I
27
In 1923 my book on Czech poetry was published, in which,
strictly speaking, phonology in the new sense of the term first
appeared, that is, phonology in the sense of the science of the
structure and function of sounds (a term I picked up in a foot­
note in one of Sechehaye's books) .55. This must have had an
influence on Malevich, and in The State Institute of the Arts
(GINXUK), which he directed from 1923 to 1926, there was
organized a Section of Phonology for the S tudy of Poetic
Language. 56
It is quite curious how, in my life, close collaborations
between people from relatively distant fields came about. I was
struck when I was shown in Paris excerpts from the diaries of
the prominent Czech artist Joseph S ima in which he relates
how significant for his work were the conversations the two of
us had in Prague in 1925, just before the creation of the Prague
Linguistic Circle. He was particularly struck by the topics of
paired relations, of binarism, and of distinctive featuresY
There were many such instances in my life when it was pre­
cisely with artists and theoreticians of art that I had the clos­
est ties. Of the theoreticians the closest one of all to me was
the Czech theoretician of visual arts and architecture Karel
Teige, with whom I associated a great dea1.5 8
There was, in the course of our entire generation, an
extremely close tie between poetry and the visual arts. There
were the problems of the very, very similar basic features,
occurring in time in poetry and in space in painting, and then
of the various intermediate forms, of various forms of collage.
Indeed, it was this transition from linearity to simultaneity
that fascinated me greatly, as is obvious, for example, in my let­
ter to Xlebnikov.59
.
.
.
28
I
MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
It was Sergej Bajdin who introduced me to Larionov. Larionov
related to me quite well, but-as always-somewhat vulgarly.
There was something about him of a petty bourgeois from
Kolomna.
Larionov was both quite intelligent and quite witty. His
essays were remarkable in their theoretical subtlety and in their
understanding of the relations between literature and art. He
understood quite well what was going on. He had gone
through an intense period of Primitivism, then there was his
period of barbers and Venuses. Then Rayonism began, which
was already a transition toward nonrepresentational art, but
then he landed in Paris, where he worked on decorative art for
Diaghilev. Moreover, he was very Russian and never actually
learned to speak French. It was all foreign to him, and he did­
n't become what he might have become-one of the great
masters of our time.
Rayonism seemed to me a very temporary experiment.
After Cubism there could only be a transition to one thing, to
the play with independent surfaces and colors.
Goncharova was under the strong influence of Larionov.
She was a subtle painter, who understood color beautifully, and
was an intelligent woman.
I was in very cordial relations with Rodchenko and with his
wife, Varvara Stepanova. Rodchenko was an easy-going fellow.
He had a colossal self-possession and grasped everything
remarkably quickly. He was a marvelous photographer; it is
amazing how well he understood Majakovskij's About That,
the semantics of the poem.6D I valued him chiefly as a photog­
rapher rather than as a painter.
David Burljuk understood painting remarkably well. I
. spent several hours with him at the Hermitage. What he
showed me in pictures, for example a nagging texture or
MEMO I R S / 2 9
chiaroscuro, was quite out the ordinary. Besides which, he
would amuse himself by asking the question "To which picture
does this or that relate?" and would explain: "Here you are,
Romochka, you could be in that picture. " He assigned me to
Rubens' studies for paintings.
For Burljuk painting merged with life in a remarkable way.
So too Brik's evaluations of young scholars merged complete­
ly with life. He would say that everyone in essence has their
own profession, and this profession was partly fortuitous­
"but what profession emerges from his character?" He would
say, for instance: "Vitja [Shklovskij ] , he's a sergeant-major,
from among the soldiers. He says: '1 don't need any of this
philology; for me the most important thing is that everyone
looks like a good lad!'" And, actually, Shklovskij later became
a partisan; he was absolutely that sort of man.
OfBogatyrev, Brik would say: "Bogatyrev is the type of bird
that collects little seeds and is glad that it's finally collected a
whole pile of seeds. When he collects folklore, he is so carried
away by the exchange of songs for kerchiefs, collars, aprons
and such things that it turns out that his main job is to be a
dealer in old clothes rather than a folklorist." Later Bogatyrev
was to tell me how, when he worked in Sub-Carpathian
Russia, he had the feeling: "Look at how much 1 got for these
kerchiefs!"
About me Brik said: "Roma, he's a diplomat. War is about
to break out, they're already bringing out the cannons, and he
goes to inquire at Court about the state of Her Excellency's
health." At the time there wasn't even the slightest talk that 1
might engage in diplomatic service.
30 / MY FUTURIST Y E A RS
The people around my parents were always more or less con­
nected to various bourgeois enterprises. My father had business
with and was in very friendly relations with a certain merchant
of the Old Believers' sect named Prozorov. Once this Prozorov
said: "We will have nothing to do with your son, you'll never
make a merchant out of him." My father asked why. "He's still
a lad [I was seven or eight at the time], I come by, you're not
home yet, he entertains me and says: 'You know what occurred
to me? Why do they sell things for money? Why don't they just
give them away? If they traded everything for free, how nice it
would be.'"
When I was accepted as a student at the Historical­
Philological Faculty of Moscow University, it was for me a
huge event. I had no doubts: I would major in linguistics, of
course, linguistics as it is connected with folklore and litera­
ture, but above all linguistics-both general linguistics and
Slavic philology, in particular Russian. I was totally enthused
with this, so exhausted was I by the atmosphere of the high
schools of the time in which there was so much superfluous
discipline, routine and so stuffY an atmosphere.
Once I went into the school library. What did I come across
immediately? The Bulletin ofthe Academy ofSciences (not of the
section of Russian language, but the general one), where there
was an essay by the mathematician Markov: a chain analysis of
Eugene Onegin, an attempt to link mathematics with the analy­
sis of a text.61 It was hard to understand, but I was instantly
fascinated by it.
Suddenly an old man came up to me, Pavel Dmitrievich
Pervov, a famous teacher who wrote articles on the grammar of
Latin and Russian; he taught Latin and Greek at our school. 62
He saw me and asked: "Ah, so you're here too. What are you,
a student?" "Yes, of the philological faculty." "Well, what are
MEMOIRS / 31
you studying, history or philosophy?" "No," I said, "linguistics."
"Listen, then there's some hope for you yet; I always thought
so, but in recent years you became such a blockhead that even
I took you for one. But now I'll send you my works." And he
actually did send me his offprints.
So everything went remarkably well. I immediately landed
in a very scholarly milieu. I instantly became good friends with
Bogatyrev, with whom I had stood in line to register at the
university in the fall of 1914. We almost immediately decided
to create the Moscow Linguistic Circle, and set off on our first
fieldwork expedition, in which we were almost killed. 63
Bogatyrev took me to the Commission on Folklore, where
I later read my first lecture, as well as to the Dialectological
Commission. It seemed that there was a completely different
atmosphere there.
I also became friends with Buslaev, who had a famous grand­
father. 64 He was part of an academic tradition, had an excep­
tional memory and was quite talented. Once he got angry with
me: "You start almost as if you're an unskilled laborer. You work
like a workman; you brush aside all the general questions." I
then answered him, quite reasonably, that it is impossible to
approach general questions without knowledge, that that's not
the way to do things and is impossible.
At the time I was mostly busy attending seminars, lectures
and discussions and paid less attention to taking exams, so that
by the end a huge number of exams had piled up for me to take.
But it was clear that I would continue to pursue scholarly work.
How, in what form, who knew? We were at war, and moreover
it was clear that after the war ended things would be very dif­
ferent from what they had been before it started.
Here several factors played a decisive role: the fact that I
still maintained my connections with artists, that I had begun
32 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E AR S
to establish contacts with poets, and the fact that for m e there
had always been a distinct tie between poetry and linguistics.
All of this predetermined what was to follow. I hadn't the
slightest idea of would would happen. I didn't think much
about whether or not I would teach.
Everything went step by step. It was a period of new
acquaintances-with linguistics of the Moscow School, with
the heritage of Fortunatov, when I was a freshman, and then
with the tradition of folkloric research, with field work and
expeditions. And then I tried to connect all these experiences
with the new approach to poetics, my early fascination with
the question "why?", with the question of teleology: for what
purpose do these phenomena happen-finally, with the ques­
tion of structure. There was also the influence of Husserl's
phenomenology. All of these things taken together prepared
me for my future work. 65
I became more closely acquainted with Majakovskij only dur­
ing the war. At the end of the summer of 1916 he came to
Moscow. This was a time of a great, passionate friendship
between Elsa and me. Once she invited me, along with
Majakovskij, to the Tramble Cafe on the Kuzneckij, which was
a cafe of the European type. 66 We sat there and Majakovskij
proposed playing a game, using our fingers instead of cards, if
I'm not mistaken. But Elsa had warned me earlier that I had
better not do so: "Under no circumstance, I forbid you." Then
he started to put me to the test, as one would a new boy at
school, to tease me in various ways, to ask me various trick
questions. I was able to answer them, and Elsa was pleased
with the result.
M EM O I R S / 33
I think it was during this same visit, in any event in the last
months before the February Revolution, we all dropped by
Elsa's. Apart from Maj akovskij and me there was a man named
Mara Levental ', who in his own time was famous for having
won a colossal sum in the State Lottery. Elsa writes of him in
her novel Wild Strawberry: "He's not a man, but a monument
to himself. "67 There was also a young woman, an Armenian, by
the name of Begljarova. 68 Where should we go out? Then
Levental' proposed: "The girls still haven't heard Vertinskij?
Let's go hear Vertinskij!" And we all went. We sat in the sec­
ond row. When Vertinskij came on stage in his clown's cos­
tume and saw Majakovskij, he practically fell into a faint. He
was frightened, lost his head, and ran off the stage. A little
later he returned, sang his songs, and after his appearance
Maj akovskij related to him in a very friendly way. He invited
us out and we all went to dine at the Literary-Artistic Club. 69
One had to be a member of the Club, but they all had various
acquaintances there. There was a certain bourgeois type by the
name of Janov whom I knew, and I asked him: "Would you
mind if I signed under your name?" He said: "What are doing
going around with such lackeys?" But he let me sign under his
name. We sat down, peacefully conversing. Majakovskij, of
course, was carrying on, as he liked to do.
Once, at the beginning of 1917, I asked Elsa out to Komissar­
zhevskaja's Theater. They were playing Sologub's "Van'ka the
Steward and the Page Jean."70 She said: "Fine, but first I have
to change. And in the meantime read this." And two little
books fell into my hands, both of which amazed me. One was
the first of the Collections on the Theory of Poetic Language,
which corresponded profoundly to what I was doing and writ­
ing at the time, but had still not published,?1 I had already writ­
ten, for instance, an article on transrational language. Before
34 / MY F U T U RI S T Y E A R S
this I knew Shklovskij's essay "The Resurrection of the Word,"
which I had particularly liked.72 But these essays I didn't know
at all, nor that such collections existed, and that Osja Brik, with
whom I was practically unacquainted, was connected to it. Lili
Brik was Elsa's older sister. When I was a student at the
Lazarev Institute, she was already too old for me; besides
which, my parents would aggrevate me with her: "Look what
marvelous compositions Lili writes; they give her such enrap­
tured comments!" Later, when I told Lili about this, she
laughed and said: "There was a teacher who was in love with
me and helped me write them."
The second book was the first, censored edition of The
Backbone-Flute, which had, however, the censored lines written
in by hand. This too made a tremendous impression on me. I
must say that my attitude toward Majakovskij changed step by
step. A Cloud in Trousers astounded me. I recall how once I was
at B ajdin's house one evening-he was already lying in bed­
and I read him aloud A Cloud in Trousers, and he said: "Yes, this
is a great poet."
Before A Cloud in Trousers I was disposed against
Majakovskij; I considered him to be an Impressionist. I must
say that I didn't react genuinely to his Vladimir Majakovski.;: a
Tragedy. This was a much better work, but it struck me as
cheap Symbolism. At the time the only poet who existed for
me was Xlebnikov. But I loved A Cloud; I knew it by heart, and
later heard Majakovskij himself read it on numerous occasions.
Soon after these two little books landed in my hands, I
went to Petrograd, in the middle of January, 1917. Elsa gave
me a letter of introduction to Lili. Zhukovskij Street, where
they lived, was not far from the train station, and when I
arrived I went straight to them and ended up staying there for
five days. They wouldn't let me leave. The only other thing I
MEMO I R S / 35
did was go to the University, to listen to Shaxmatov's lectures.
In her letter Elsa had particularly asked that they make me
read my translation of A Cloud into French. I read it, and they
liked it a lot. Then Majakovskij came by, and I read it to him.
He had me read it many times, and one time asked me to
repeat my translation of the following lines from his poem:
You entered
brashly as "Take it or leave it!",
tormenting the suede of your gloves,
and said:
"Know what?
I'm getting married."
In French they read:
Apre, comme un mot de dISdain,
tu entras, Marie,
et tu m'a dit,
en tourmentant tes gants de daim:
"Savez-vous,
je me marie." 73
"Wait a minute," said Majakovskij , "marie, mane, what is
that?" I translated it for him literally. "Oh, so they're different
words; that's good."
I then became extraordinarily good friends both with
Majakovskij and with Brik. I had already heard the whole
story from Elsa, that is in her version, of how Maj akovskij was
acquainted with Elsa, how her father was terribly opposed,
how Lili was also opposed after she heard about it from her
father, and how Elsa tried to reconcile Lili with the fact that
she had such a friend and that he would be coming by, and Lili
said: "Just as long as he doesn't read any poems."74 But then, of
course, he hecame one of the Briks' close circle. For a long time
36 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
in Moscow I had in my hands Elsa's diary (it was later lost), in
which she had written: "Roma has returned from Petersburg,
and, unfortunately, he's also already one of the Briks'."
Elsa and I were drawn together very much by the French
language. We had a teacher of French in common, a certain
Mademoiselle Dache. She was the daughter of a French fam­
ily that had come to live in Moscow. She grew up in Russia,
it is true, studied at a French gymnasium, but spoke French
without a burr, with a rolled "r." This same rolled "r" remained
in both Elsa's and my French pronunciation. Grammont, by
the way, considers that the correct, classical pronunciation is
precisely with such a rolled "r."75 And in Russia-partly in
aristocratic circles, but not only there-it was considered in
bad taste to imitate French pronunciation too much. People
would say: "You should learn proper French, how to speak and
write well, but remember that you're not monkeys, but
Russians. Imitate the pronunciation, but not too much, so
that it won't seem like you're trying to play at being French."
And in both our pronunciations the rolled "r" was even
stronger, since we hadn't heard the other "r," except perhaps
when French writers or actors would come to visit Russia and
we attended their performances. Thus, for example, I heard in
childhood Verhaeren, Richepin, Sarah Bernhardt and others.
Because Mademoiselle Dache loved French literature and
would give it to us to read, both of us also loved French liter­
ature, and there was always something connected with France
in our relations. Often Elsa and I, speaking in Russian, would
insert French into our conversation. No one ever thought that
she would become a French writer, or that I would become
linked one way or another to French science.
Sometimes we improvised jokes in French and once, in con­
nection with something funny that had happened, I composed
MEMO I R S / 37
some impromptu verses, and Elsa played and sang them as a
little chanson:
C'est demain, man escapade,
vite-je quitte mes air malades.
Un docteur, etant aime des femmes,
vite m'entraine vers des lieux infames.
A la fin de la nuit,
comme toujours, je m'ennuis
et je n'ai plus rien a dire.
11 m'agace avec son bete de rire . . .
and so on.
I must say that because of Mademoiselle Dache we had a
strong French orientation, cultural, literary, and artistic. Who
would one want to look at of the artists? Why, of course, the
French!
In his early youth Mademoiselle Dache's father had taken
part in the Franco-Prussian war, and she would often talk
about the alleged German atrocities. Both Elsa and I had a
strong pro-French and anti-German inclination. So that it was
natural that she would meet and marry the French officer
Triolet. Later Elsa wrote in a very interesting way about
Mademoiselle Dache in her book La mise en mots.76
.
.
.
I returned from Petrograd to Moscow entirely convinced that
a revolution would occur. Almost no one wanted to believe it.
But it was completely clear from the mood in the universities.
In February I was again in Petrograd. Lili prepared a din­
ner with bliny; this was the founding of OPOJAZ. Present were
Ejxenbaum, Shklovskij-who in general was at the Briks' quite
often-Polivanov and Jakubinskij , who called me an "armored
38 / MY FUTURI S T Y E A R S
Moscovite," since in Moscow there was a single linguistic ori­
entation. About Petrograd we Moscovites would say: "Here
and there, wherever you want," or ''As you wish." I recall that
Maj akovskij, who was also present, asked me about Polivanov:
"And what does this one study?" "Chinese language."-"Aha,
he catches whales, I respect that." [A pun on kitajskij Chinese
and kit 'whale'-tr.]
I had met Shklovskij earlier at the Briks', but I met the rest
for the first time that evening. Both Osja and Vitja began to
push me forward a lot. 77
At the end of March or the beginning of April
Majakovskij, Burljuk and I went together to Petrograd.78 This
was a few days before the arrival of Lenin. On the train there
were huge political arguments, and someone shouted "Down
with the War!" Majakovskij, in his stentorian voice, replied:
"Who is shouting 'Down with the War'? Former policemen,
who don't want to go to the front?" Later, when I told him this,
he winced.
The Provisional Government had organized days of Russo­
Finnish rapprochement. I ended up at the opening of an exhi­
bition of Finnish art-of painting, architectural plans, and so
on-with Volodja and Osja. There were various welcoming
speeches, followed by a formal dinner.79 At this reception I was
called upon to act as an interpreter between Gor'kij and a cer­
tain famous Finnish architect, who spoke French. The architect
was quite drunk, as was Gor 'kij. In general quite a few people
were drunk.
The Finn said: "Tout Ie monde pense que vous etes un
genie-genie-et moi je vous dis: vous etes un imbecile.
Traduisez, mais traduisez exactement! Non, non, non, vous ne
traduisez pas comme j'ai dit! Imbecile, comment se dit s:a en
russe?" Such was the style of the conversation. SO
'
'
MEMOIRS I 39
Majakovskij was then called on to read. He read his own
poems and then suddenly said: "Now I shall read the verses of
my friend, the brilliant poet and scholar of verse." The verses
were as follows:
I myself will die when I feel like it,
And enter in the list of voluntary victims
My family name, name and patronymic
And the day when I will be dead.
I'll pay off all my debts at the stores,
Purchase the latest almanac,
And await my already-ordered coffin,
Reading A Cloud in Trousers!
Osja was extremely embarrassed, since he did not consider his
poetic activity to be a social fact.
Then a few of us went out; Osja was not among them.
Lenin arrived, and Osja went to the station. When he returned
later, he said: "He seems to be crazy, but he's very convincing."81
We went on to our favorite spots: Volodja, me, the artist
Brodskij (who later became an official Soviet artist), and a cer­
tain Gur'jan, a relative of my neighbors in Moscow, a promi­
nent attorney and a grand bon vivant. We went from place to
place, and in the end Gur'jan invited us all to his place at
around two in the morning. Various drinks and hors-d'oeuvres
were served. Majakovskij and Brodskij decided to play pool.
Pool was one ofMajakovskij's weaknesses, or rather one of his
strengths, since he played beautifully. They battled against one
another with real verve. I lay on the couch and even took a
snooze. Then they began to discuss where to go next, and
someone said that in a few hours, at eight o'clock, Lenin
would be speaking at Kshesinskaja's Palace. "Let's go listen to
him!" And so we went. There were torn curtains. Someone sat
on a piano. There was a mixture of chairs and complete chaos.
40 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
There was a large crowd, and quite a few sailors. Everyone was
waiting. And when finally the speaker was announced, it wasn't
Lenin but Zinov'ev. We got bored and fina11y left. 82
During this or my previous visit, Majakovskij said to me:
"Come on, you want to take a ride?" I said yes. He absolutely
loved to go in a fast cab in a circle past the University and the
Academy, on the Stre1ka. He said: "But let's divide the fare in
halE" "Fine," I said, "but I don't have any cash on me."-"You
give me your word?"-"Yes."-"'Til our next meeting." We sat
in the cab, and he started reading me some verses that he had
just written: "If I were as little as the Great Ocean . . . "83 When
we met at the Briks' the next time, I tried to give him the
money, but he said "What's this?"-"I did give you my
word."-"You're crazy!"
Before my arrival in Petrograd in the middle of January I
hadn't met with Lili at a11, and there was a very long interval
from my childhood until the time I began seeing Elsa again.
Elsa and I had become particularly close in 1916. But I only
began to know Lili again when I happened to end up in their
literary circle (one could hardly ca11 it a salon).
There were relatively few people there, strictly speaking,
people who revolved around Osja's latest interests. I don't even
know how Osja became a Formalist, why he became interest­
ed in sound repetitions and the like. 84 I was quite astonished
when Elsa showed me the co11ection on the theory of poetic
language; I thought to myself: here are people who are doing
what needs to be done!
Whenever I hadn't been at the Briks' for a while, I would
ask, jokingly: "Te11 me, what is one supposed to talk about at
M E MOI R S / 41
the Briks' these days, and what is forbidden? What is consid­
ered correct and what-superstitious?" There was a pretty
definite mood at their place, a sort of dogma of its own.
When I came alone to Petrograd, I would stay at the
Briks'. They had a very crowded apartment. They lived there
because Brik was a deserter from the army, and they couldn't
move into another apartment, since it would have to be regis­
tered with the police. So I would sleep on the divan in a room
more like a passage-way, which Osja used as his study. It was
all extraordinarily Bohemian. There was a table laid all day,
where there was kolbasa, bread, cheese, and tea all the time. A
samovar would be brought in. Whoever wanted to talk would
come in. It was quite unique, something completely unlike
anything else I'd ever seen. Interesting pictures hung on the
walls. And there was a huge sheet of paper that took up a
whole wall, where all of the guests would write something for
Lili. I recall that there was one caricature of Lili and Osja,
who was sitting and working, with the inscription: "Lili
revolves around Osja."
At the time I happened to be around, Kuzmin would come
by often to play cards. Kuzmin was most amusing in company;
he sang well and played on the piano. It was at the time that
he wrote two poems for Lili, which were published in a sepa­
rate edition.85
Lili would say: "It's pleasant to have Kuzmin over; he sings
his little songs and always has something amusing to relate.
But, you know, if you want to have someone over and became
of that are forced to invite his unpleasant wife, that's not good.
And with Kuzmin one has to invite Jurkun." Kuzmin was hav­
ing a real affair with Jurkun.86
And Kuzmin would say to me: "How is it, Romochka, that
you love Elsa so; after all, she looks so much like a woman!"
42 / MY FUTUR I S T YEARS
I also saw Mandel'shtam there, but he came only on busi­
ness.
There was also an artist, Kozlinskij,8 7 and a certain man
whom Elsa was quite fascinated with, Gurvic-Gurskij . He was
a very talented engineer, with a great knowledge of art and lit­
erature. 88
N atan Ai' tman would also drop by. They were playing
cards bon ami or "cheaps," as they called it, so as not to have to
pay right away. Ai'tman didn't have any money on him, so
when he lost, they would put pledges into play along with the
cash. Volodja quipped: "Al'tman's governesses are in play."
They played cards a lot. Majakovskij played fantastically,
but was terribly nervous during the game. He would win; he
was able to do so particularly at poker, a psychological game.
He would clean out his opponent often. But afterwards-I
was a witness to this on several occasions when he stayed at my
place overnight in Moscow-he would walk up and down the
room weeping, so overwrought were his nerves. 89
Moreover, he was terribly afraid of Lili. She was against the
fact that he played so often and with such animation. I even
wrote some humorous verses on this score-not about poker,
but about chemin de fer-which he also played and sometimes
took terrible losses at, not even reckoning up how much he had
lost:
With Volodja we shuffled along timidly
Wondering whether we'd get it hot
From Lili, from Lili, from Lili . . .
and so on. I liked to play poker more than chemin de fer.
Mainly it was Volodja who taught me how. But he didn't insult
me in the process. Once we were playing chemin at the
premises of the Linguistic Circle and he came up with the
MEMOIRS / 43
lines: "It's time, my friend, to drop by the Circle.! Let's play at
vikzhel' for a change." Vikzhel' was the abbreviation for the
AlI- Russian Executive Committee of Railroad Workers, and
the invented verb vikzhetnut' meant to play chemin de fer.90 I
won and he lost, then he took me not only for what I'd won,
but for a rather large sum on top of that, which I paid, even
though my financial means at the time were extremely limit­
ed. He said to me: "Listen, I can't give you the money back, but
I'll invite you to live together with us for the entire summer."
So we ended up in Pushkino.91
At the time it still hadn't been decided that we would go
to Pushkino. The first plan, as I recall, was totally wild and
fantastic-Voronezh; this is mentioned in the game of bouts­
rimes we played.92 We thought to go, the four of us-Lili and
Osja, Volodja and me. Then we went to Voskresenskoe, where
I knew people. But when we arrived there, it turned out that
almost the whole village had died of spotted typhus.
Maj akovskij became terribly frightened. Then we took a walk
in the woods. He didn't want to get near anyone. We spent the
whole time playing different card games, using our fingers
instead of cards.
By education Brik was a lawyer.93 He was quite unique. For his
doctoral thesis he wanted to write about the sociology and
juridical status of prostitutes and would frequent the boule­
vards. All the prostitutes there knew him, and he always
defended them, for free, in all their affairs, in their confronta­
tions with the police and so on. They called him "the whore's
papa" or something of the sort; I won't vouch for the word.
They were very impressed that he wasn't interested in them,
44 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
that he never wanted anything from them. He did it all pure­
ly in a friendly, comradely way.
Osja knew how to sit and work, and no one bothered him.
When I first landed there, he was terribly carried away by
poetry and didn't want to hear about anything else. He studied
metrics and poetics fanatically. He arrived at amazing ideas­
about Benediktov, about Gogol"s "The Nose." Later, in the
period when he began to depart from poetics and studied the
sociology of art, he had, for example, a marvelous interpreta­
tion of Zola's novel L'CEuvre as an artist's testament, which he
compared with the diaries and letters of the Russian Itinerant
artists. 94
He had one ability which was exceptional. He knew
Ancient Greek a little. Suddenly he arrived at some sort of
conclusions about Greek verse and invited Rumer to come
by.95 The latter heard him out and said: "It's amazing: this is
the latest discovery, which was only recently made." For Brik
all of this was like doing crossword puzzles.
Osja was terribly ironic, but not ironic in a mean way; he'd
just smoke and talk. I recall how once, in 1918, he, Lili, and
Volodja were sitting in my rather cramped room, and
Majakovskij was reading the still unfinished draft of Mystery­
Bouffe. After the reading he started to say that he didn't know
whether people would understand that it was genuine revolu­
tionary art. Osja said: "You think that this is communist art,
right? 'You are the first to have entry into my heavenly king­
dom . . . . ' You think that that's a theme?" The line was gone by
the second version.
Brik was one of the wittiest people I have ever known. And
he was witty for the fact that no one ever saw him laugh. He
always spoke in complete earnest. Once in Berlin I was talking
with Brik about Shklovskij's recently published book, Zoo.
MEMO I R S / 45
Brik said: "Vitja's a strange fellow. He hasn't studied grammar.
He doesn't know there there are words that are inanimate in
gender, and that VCIK [The All-Russian Central Executive
Committee] is an inanimate noun. Inanimate objects don't
have a sense of humor, so one can't make jokes with VCIK."96
Brik didn't do a lot that he might have done. It's amazing,
but he had no ambition. He wasn't even interested in finishing
his own works. But, on the other hand, he generously shared
his ideas. And he very much valued a person's ability to work,
as well as a person's talent; this is the way he related to the
members of the Moscow Linguistic Circle. He liked people
who came up with unexpected things. He liked me a lot in
general, but when I came to him and told him that I was in
danger of being considered a deserter, he answered: "You're not
the first, nor the last." And he didn't do a thing for me.
Brik joined the Cheka soon after my departure.97 It was
from Bogatyrev, who visited me in Prague in December 1921,
that I learned Brik was in the Cheka. And he told me that
Pasternak, who often visited the Briks, had said to him: "Still,
it's become rather terrifying. You come in, and Lili says: 'Wait
a while, we'll have dinner as soon as Osja comes back from the
Cheka.'" At the end of 1922 I met the Briks in Berlin. Osja
said to me: "Now there's an institution where a man loses his
sentimentality," and began relating to me several rather bloody
episodes. This was the first time he made a rather repulsive
impression on me. Working in the Cheka had ruined him .
.
.
.
When Majakovskij began writing the poem Man, in the
spring of 1917, he would say to me: "This will be a man, but
not a man of the Andreev type, but a simple man, who drinks
46 I MY F U T U RI S T Y E AR S
tea, takes walks on the street . . . . It's just about such a man
that I will write a genuine poem."
Once Majakovskij read me an excerpt from the section
"Majakovskij in Heaven" or something quite near to it in the
poem. "The lines are good, aren't they?" The lines were indeed
remarkable. "Yes, but they don't fit." They did destroy the
effect of the whole, and he deleted them.
He practically didn't write anything down and threw every­
thing away. If at the time I had had an archival relation to
things, it would have been enough for me to simply ask the
maid to bring me whatever he threw away in the wastebasket,
and it would be a rare collection today. By chance I preserved
a first-draft version of 150,000,000; I left at the time for
Revel ', and asked him to give it to me. He gave it to me, not
only as a keepsake or to show to people, but because, as he put
it, "they won't publish it here."
On February 2, 1918 Majakovskij gave a public reading of
Man at the Polytechnical Museum. I was with Elsa. I had
never heard Majakovskij give such a reading. He was very agi­
tated, and wanted to convey everything and read several sec­
tions in an amazing way, for example:
A laundry.
Laundresses.
Many and wet ...
The lines "Drugist! Drugist!" sounded very much like Blok.98
Nothing had ever produced such a strong impression on me as
this.
He said that he would never again sell his works and sim­
ply give away his books. He asked Andrei Belyj, who had been
at his previous reading at the poet Amari's, to speak.99 Belyj
spoke with great enthusiasm about the fact that after a long,
M EM O I R S / 47
long interval there was a great Russian narrative poem, and
that he understood that this was genuine poetry and that there
were no such boundaries as Futurism, Symbolism, etc., but
only poetry. 100
Once, soon after the October Revolution, I was visiting Elsa at
her apartment on a street near Pjatnickaja.10 1 I suggested we
go to the Cafe of Poets. 1 02 At the time it was still difficult to
get around Moscow at night, but we went anyway. Volodja was
very pleased to see us. He read "Our March," "Left March,"
and ''An Ode to the Revolution." I didn't like "An Ode to
Revolution" at all, with its abundance of dry rhetoric, which
showed even in the way he read it.
The public was quite diverse. There were actually former
members of the bourgeoisie, who listened to such lines as "Eat
your pineapple. Chew on your grouse. Your last day has come,
bourgeois!" There were people off the street, who hadn't ever
even heard of poetry. There were interested young people. At
the time squatters had already appeared, for the most part
anarchists, who had seized houses and apartments. At the
reading a certain anarchist in some sort of strange para-mili­
tary uniform suddenly spoke. He said: "Here you've read all
sorts of poems, but now I'll tell you how I got married." And
he read, with excellent fairy-tale technique, the technique of
a village storyteller, a famous lubok text, which exists in vari­
ous versions from the eighteenth century-a mocking poem
about a pathetic bridegroom and his pathetic, ugly, poor,
repulsive wife. I was still a folklorist at heart, so I went up to
him and asked: "I'd like very much to write down what you
just narrated to us so magnificently."-"No, I came here just
48 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E AR S
to have a rest and make merry. Drop by my place some­
time."-"Where is it?-"It's called the House of Instant
Socialists."103 I planned to go, but somehow never got around
to it. Soon afterwards they dispersed the anarchists.104
I was sometimes asked to read. I read my translations of
Majakovskij into French-A Cloud in Trousers and "Our
March." Majakovskij would read in Russian, and I in French:
"Barbouillons dans les vagues du second deluge/ l'huile des
villes de l'univers. . . ." 105 Later I read my translation of
Majakovskij's poem "They Don't Understand a Thing" into
Old Church Slavonic.l06
Toward the end of the evening, when there were only a rel­
atively few people left, Chekists suddenly came in to verifY
people's papers, to find out what sort of people were there.
Whether the document I had was insufficient, or whether I
had no documents at all, I don't recall, but they were beginning
to pester me, when two people intervened on my behalf: on the
one hand Kamenskij , who said, "He's one of ours, he works
with us," and on the other hand, quite strongly and insistent­
ly, "the Futurist of life" Vladimir Gol'cshmidt. So they left me
alone. Gol' cshmidt was a terrific strongman and would break
boards over his head at the Cafe of Poets.1°7
On May Day, 1918, I was supposed to read at the Cafe of
Poets, where there were very interesting decorations by
Jakulov, but I had to go away somewhere, and someone read
my French translations in my place. lOS Nejshtadt read his
German translations and my Old Church Slavonic translation,
which he later printed with mistakes, having totally mixed up
the text.109 The actress Poplavskaja, who, if I'm not mistaken,
MEMOIRS / 49
was attracted to Xlebnikov, also read some of my French trans­
lations.110
Majakovskij rarely appeared at the Cafe Pittoresque. Once
I was sitting there with Shklovskij . Esenin, whom I did not
know personally, came up to us. Shklovskij introduced us. "Oh,
so it's you, Jakobson . . . Majakovskij, Xlebnikov. . . .
Understand, the essence of poetry is not in rhymes, nor in the
verse. It is there so that the eyes can be seen, and so that some­
thing can be seen in the eyes."
David Burljuk in the spring of 1918 lived in one of the
anarchist houses; there were lots of cases then of people mov­
ing into anarchist houses. These were private residences of
aristocrats or simply wealthy people that had been seized and
plundered. Volodj a told me that Burljuk used some sort of
porcelain or crystal from these houses. It had been noticed,
but he hid it and carried it all off. Moroever, he had brothers
who were serving in the White Army. His brother Nikolai
had either died fighting in the White Army or had fallen into
the hands of the Reds and been shot; one didn't talk about
him. 111
Majakovskij was very jealous because of Lili's attachment to a
man named Jacques. 112 Jacques was a real swashbuckler, quite
intelligent and cultured in his own way, a fast liver and a
squanderer. Once, shortly before the February Revolution, I
arranged a large party at my mother's house. There were vari­
ous officers, generals, and, in particular, Volodja, Vitja and
Osja. It all had an absolutely dissolute, pre-revolutionary char­
acter. Jacques begin teasing me for flirting with his aunt, who
was a youn� woman. I said jokingly: "How dare you say this
SO / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
about an honorable woman!" And he replied, "Who dares to
call my aunt an honorable woman?!"
After the Revolution Jacques was on very friendly terms
with Gor 'kij for a certain time. He was a person who was
always ready to be of help. Once Volodja happened to meet
Jacques on the street in the company of Gor'kij. They started
bantering with one another, and ended up in some sort of
fight. After this Gor'kij conceived a terrible dislike for
Majakovskij. l l3 At one time Gor 'kij had been Majakovskij 's
protector, and Majakovskij had admired Gor'kij greatly. Osja
said to me: "Volodja thought that his War and the World was a
real accomplishment, but he took a lot of undigested phrases
from Gor'kij . Gor 'kij had made a tremendous impression on
him, that suddenly someone could talk in such a way about the
War."
Later Majakovskij had a long enmity toward Gor'kij . I
don't know a single person about whom he would speak in a
more inimical way than about Gor'kij . And I must say, the
same applied to Gor'kij . He spoke with me several times about
his attitude toward Majakovskij . Gor'kij very much wanted
me to publish a critique of Majakovskij in his journal Beseda,
and relayed the request through Xodasevich. 114
Majakovskij despised Gor'kij, and this became particularly
evident to me twice. Once, in the spring of 1919, Majakovskij
had won at cards, and I went with him to have coffee and
cakes at a private, quasi-legal cafe in Kamergerskij Lane. I was
sitting at one table with Volodja; Bljumkin sat at the next
table. We struck up a conversation, and Volodja suggested to
Bljumkin that they organize an evening and speak out against
Gor 'kij . Suddenly Chekists came in to verifY people's papers.
They came up to Bljumkin, and he refused to show them his
documents. When they started pressing him, he said: "Leave
MEMOIRS / 5 1
me alone, or I'll shoot!"-"What do you mean, shoot?"­
"Well, just like I shot Mirbach!" They got confused, and one
of them went to call to find out what to do. Bljumkin got up,
went up to the one standing by the door, threatened him,
brandishing his revolver, pushed him aside, and left. 1 I5
Bljumkin was an educated man. He talked with me at the
time about the Avesta. He had studied ancient Iranian lan­
guages and had an interest in philology.
The second time was in my apartment in Prague [in 1927] ,
when I invited Majakovskij and Antonov-Ovseenko over for
bliny.1I6 He read his poems, in particular one about Gor'kij .
Antonov-Ovseenko started defending Gor 'kij energetically.
Then Volodja said: "Fine, but just let him come back. What's
he sitting abroad for?" And he began speaking bitterly about
the fact that Gor'kij was, in general, an amoral phenomenon.
When the "King of Poets" was chosen, I was on the jury.
Majakovskij had proposed me. We didn't actually do anything
but count the votes. Majakovskij read various poems, but it
was clear that the audience preferred Severjanin. The mood
was such that people wanted a little every-day joy in life.
When the vote was counted and Severjanin won, Burljuk
stood up with his lorgnette and said: "I declare the present
meeting to be dismissed." 117
Majakovskij and I worked on his "Soviet Alphabet" together.
When he had the first line of a couplet, but the second would­
n't come to him, he would say: "I'll pay you so much, if you can
5 2 / MY F U TURI S T YEARS
think up a good one!" There are quite a few of our joint verses
there.
It amused him a lot. There existed a school-boys' past­
time-indecent alphabets, and several of these verses recall
them somewhat. Some of these alphabets existed in manuscript
form and even were sold underground. The association was
obvious, and for this reason Majakovskij was attacked terribly
for his ''Alphabet.''
One typist from a good family, whom he asked to type it up
in some sort of office where she worked, refused with tears in
her eyes to type such indecencies as:
W ilson's more important than other birds.
He'll stick a feather up her butt.
This was quite typical for these indecent alphabets. So that,
when she became offended, it was obvious that she knew
them.11 8
I often saw Majakovskij drawing posters for ROSTA. Once I
even helped him with some sort of rhyme. 119 But the work
didn't interest him much. He tried to do it in a business-like
way. I never spoke with him about whether he considered the
work to be serious or simply hack-work. It never went any­
where, was never published, it was only displayed in shop win­
dows! And the majority of the puns were too difficult to
understand. It was above all a hack-work source of earning
some money. 120
The agitational poems were already something else; they
were more like a preparation for a future time. But Majakovskij
thought all along that he would return to genuine work.
In his poetry there are many elements of parody. Compare,
for example, "Drink Van Houten's cocoa!" in A Cloud in Trousers
MEMO I R S / 5 3
with the later lines "Where's strength?-In this cocoa." This is
practically a verbatim repetition, a complete parody, just as The
Bedbug was a total parody of About That)21 He often lost his
head, didn't really know what to write or how to write. If you
take, for example, Esenin's poetry, it is poetry to himself!
In the summer of 1918 I lived in the countryside close to
Voskresenskoe, where I was busy writing. When I came to
Moscow, I learned that the staff at the People's Commissariat
of Foreign Affairs were looking for me.
Negotiations were going on between the R.S.F.S.R. and
Skoropadsky's Ukraine. 122 Rakovskij was heading the negotia­
tions)23 The chief question was that of the borders. 124 The
Ukrainians proposed basing them on the linguistic boundaries
established by Russian scholars, and presented the map of the
Moscow Dialectological Commission, where a series of tran­
sitional dialects were described, most of the territories of
which would be assigned to the Ukraine.
They sought out the authors, of whom there were three:
Ushakov, Durnovo, and Sokolov. But in view of the fact that it
was summer, none of them were in Moscow. Then Bogdanov,
who was Secretary of the Ethnographic Division of the
Rumjancev Museum, pointed me out, since I was also a mem­
ber of the Dialectological Commission. They sought me out
and asked: "What actually are these borders?" I answered that
they were hardly unquestionable, that they represented a
working hypothesis, that one should approach the question
not from an historical point of view, but should attempt to
establish where these transitional dialects related, and that one
could easily challenge the results. "Can you write all this down
5 4 / MY FUTUR I S T YEARS
for us?" I said that I could. "Can you do it quickly?" I answered,
"Today."-"But could you add the signature of one of the
authors?" I told them that Ushakov lived in the Podolsk
District, which was rather far away. "We'll give you a car and
chauffeur, drive out to him!"
I went. Ushakov and I discussed the entire matter. It turned
out that the map actually did contain mistakes and inaccura­
cies and that it was impossible to formulate the borders on the
basis of it. We composed a letter together. I stayed at his place
overnight, and in the morning the car took me back to
Moscow.
This time I was received by Vladimir Friche, who was, it
seems, a Deputy Commissar. 1 25 He thanked me warmly and
offered to pay me an honorarium for my work. I told him that
I didn't need any money, but that my father was sick and I had
to send my parents abroad. He immediately wrote out a pass­
port for them and they left soon after.
I advised my parents to go to Sweden, but instead they lin­
gered in Riga. Then the Red Army entered Riga, and they sent
me a desparate telegram asking me to come to save them.
For part of the journey I had to travel in a wagon crammed
with Red Army soldiers, among whom some were actually
dying. A louse from one of them jumped on me, and in exact­
ly thirteen days I came down with spotted typhus. This kept
me in Riga, even though I wanted to return to Moscow, where
I was an advanced graduate student at Moscow University
preparing for a career as a professor.
My father and brother moved into a different apartment,
while my mother stayed in this one, though she didn't usually
MEMOIRS / 5 5
come into the room where I was lying, since she was afraid of
being infected. I had a local nurse, who we paid. I lay for three
weeks in total delirium. Only a year later did I come back to
my senses. It was only with great difficulty that I began to
recall what was real and what I had seen in my delirium.
Suddenly three Latvian Chekists with rifles came to search
the place-two men and a woman-to clarifY how it was that
bourgeois people lived in the apartment. It was explained to
them that a sick man was lying there. They didn't believe it.
They entered. I jumped up on the bed when I saw them and
announced deliriously: "In the name of the People's Commissar
I order all three be subjected to the highest punishment!" They
became frightened and demanded my documents. The docu­
ment had been signed by Trockaja, and they left. 126 It was one
of the tricks by which my life was saved.
This was in early spring of 1919. After I had recuperated, I
left for Moscow in the second half of March, still so weak from
my illness that I couldn't even make it up the steps of the train.
In Moscow I entered the Division of Visual Arts (IZO),
where I worked under Brik. Osja related to my work in a very
obliging way. If I considered the work I was doing at home to
be more important, if I missed two or three days at work, he
didn't object. My title was "scholarly secretary," and I helped
out in various publishing matters.
The literary-publishing section of IZO was supposed to
publish an encyclopedia. 127 The head of the section was
Kandinskij; Shevchenko 128 worked there, as did the Italian
Franchetti, who later emigrated to Italy. 129 Brik and I took part
in the editorial conferences, when the section's publications, in
particular, this encyclopedia, were discussed. Several people
related to it quite hotly-Kandinskij had just written his auto­
biography, l 1O and many had written various articles. But Brik,
56 / MY F U T URI S T Y E AR S
with characteristic venomousness, said, when they showed him
the list of who would write about what: "This I understand­
Byzantine art, specialist on Byzantine art. The Fifteenth
Century-a specialist on the fifteenth century; that's harder to
understand, but alright. But here, what does this mean:
'Articles beginning with the letter B'? What sort of specialist is
that? Aha, I get it-a specialist at copying from the Brokhaus
and Efron Encyclopedia . . . .
The editorial board asked me to do an article for the ency­
clopedia, and I proposed to them an article and even wrote a
note with the content: "Artistic semantics." Everyone was very
pleased except for Kandinskij: "What is it? It's incomprehens­
ible!" Kandinskij was a kind man in his own way, cultured, a bit
of an eclectic despite all of his innovativeness, a combination
of a German and Russian, which didn't go together all that
well. But he was a talented man.
The journal Art of the Commune was already coming out in
Petrograd,1 31 and it was decided that a newspaper should be
published in Moscow. They had no editor, and I brought them
an editor, Kostja Umanskij , who was still a boy with peach­
fuzz on his cheeks. But he set to work and made a fine job of
editing the paper. He was a very capable person and later pub­
lished a book in German on avant-garde art, not a bad book
for the time. 132 After that he became a diplomat and was the
first Soviet ambassador to Mexico.
I left IZO quite soon, in August 1919.
"
After my return from Riga I worked with Xlebnikov. Together
we were preparing a two-volume edition of his works. 133 He
received me very warmly, and we saw a lot of one another.
MEMOIRS / 5 7
When we were alone he talked a lot, though for the most part
he was laconic. And he had interesting things to say, for exam­
ple, how phrases constructed without the slightest humor and
without the slightest ironic intention, would become mocking
expressions, such as, "the Senate made clear." It is an actual
expression, but later "made clear" acquired the meaning that "it
would have been better to obfuscate." He cited several such
examples.
He would speak, jumping from topic to topic. He was very
happy that I was preparing his book, because he knew my atti­
tude toward him and he knew that I had a good memory.
The so-called "Testament of Xlebnikov" is not a testament
at all, but merely a list, which we composed together, of what
he wanted to be included in the volume. We decided that he
should write a few words about himself. I suggested calling
this preface "Svojasi" ['My Place'] . He liked the idea a lot. For
a time I wavered: perhaps instead of "Svojasi," it should be
"Mojami" ['My Me'] , but the latter didn't sound as good. 134
Xlebnikov was sharply critical of Burljuk's editions of his
writings. He said that his edition of Creations was totally cor­
rupted, and often became indignant over the fact that he
published things that were not at all meant for publication, in
particular the lines: "Eternity is my pot / eternity's a swat / I
love the boredom of intestines / I call fate piss . . . . " 1 35 And he
would correct a great deal, both in manuscript and in printed
texts. He was against Burljuk's chronology, which was fantastic,
but it didn't bother him that much; what bothered him for the
most part were the texts and the separate publication of frag­
ments that belonged together.
It was very interesting working with him on this book. We
met often. I was at the Briks' constantly, and occasionally
Xlebnikov would visit me. Once we were far from the center,
58 I MY F U T U RIST Y E A RS
at one of the small exhibits that IZO had put on, an exhibit of
the works of Gumilina.136 We spoke about painting; it was a
very interesting conversation. Then we went to my place on
the Lubjanskij Thruway. I invited him to come upstairs. We
continued talking, but I suddenly felt completely exhausted,
lay down and fell asleep. (This was shortly after I had con­
tracted spotted typhus.) When I woke up, he was already gone.
This was our last meeting. He soon left town. 137 One could
never predict his movements. He would suddenly feel like
going off somewhere; he had a nomadic spirit. If he had not
left then, it's possible that we might have finished this two­
volume collection. It was impossible to explain. It wasn't that
he was starving; they fed him at the Briks', after all. Perhaps
Lili said something to him that insulted him; that would hap­
pen . . . . He was a very difficult person to have as a guest.
My introduction to Xlebnikov's works was called
"Approaches to Xlebnikov"; it was later published in Prague
under the title The Newest Russian Poetry. l 38 I read it at the
Briks' in May of 1919, at the first meeting of the Moscow
Linguistic Circle since the October Revolution.139 Xlebnikov
was not in Moscow; he had already left for the South.
Majakovskij was present and took part in the discussion. Lili
was late for some reason or other and asked, "How was it?" and
Majakovskij answered with some warm words.
At the time Xlebnikov and I were on very friendly terms. It
was clear that I was closer to him than the Briks were. He was
somewhat intimidated by them and kept himself apart.
Xlebnikov's relations with Majakovskij were quite complex.
Majakovskij spoke with him in a somewhat affectedly polite
way, very respectfully, but at the same time kept him at a dis­
tance. He related to him in a strained way, but at the same time
was delighted by him. All of this was very complicated. There
MEMOIRS / 5 9
is actually a very strong influence ofXlebnikov o n Majakovskij,
but there is also a very strong influence of Majakovskij on
Xlebnikov. They were quite different. I think that Majakovskij
was won over by certain small fragments in Xlebnikov that
were unusually unified and strong. But from Xlebnikov I never
heard a thing about Majakovskij, or at any rate I don't recall it.
I'll never forget how, when I was working on Xlebnikov's
long poems, there was lying on the table a page of the manu­
script with the fragment: "From the beehive of the street /
Bullets like bees. / The chairs shake . . . . "140 Volodja read it and
said: "If only I could write like Vitja . . . . "
I reminded him of this once, and reminded him in a cruel
way. I was very angry with him over the fact that he did not
publish Xlebnikov at a time when he could have done so and
had received money for that purpose, 141 Not only did he not
publish him, he even wrote the phrase: "Paper for the living!" 142
He replied: "I never could have said anything of the sort. If I
had said it, I would have thought so, and if I thought so, I
would have stopped writing poetry." This was in Berlin, when
I had to make arrangements to locate Xlebnikov's missing
manuscripts. It was an idiotic story, which, of course, tore
Majakovskij apart and made him terribly bitter. He didn't recall
what had happened to the manuscripts and knew nothing
about it. As a matter of fact, he had absolutely nothing to do
with it. The story goes as follows.
I was afraid for Xlebnikov's manuscripts. After my parents'
departure, their apartment was given over to the Moscow
Linguistic Circle. There were boxes with the publications of
the Circle, various book shelves, and my father's fireproof safe,
which went unused. It was into this safe that I put all the man­
uscripts. There were other things there as well, in particular,
my own manuscripts.
60 I MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
Mter Xlebnikov's death I received a letter from the artist
Miturich with the request to help him find out what
Majakovskij had done with Xlebnikov's manuscripts. I was
totally perplexed. I knew that Majakovskij had nothing what­
ever to do with it. He never had them in his hands, except for
the incident I just mentioned, when he simply read them on the
spot. I immediately wrote from Prague to my friends in the
Circle, in particular Buslaev, to whom I had given the key to the
safe. He was unable to find the key. Then I informed him that
I wanted him to open the safe somehow; it didn't matter to me
whether it was destroyed in the process. He wrote me that this
would cost a lot of money. I answered that I would pay for
everything and sent the money somehow. They opened the safe
and found the manuscripts. 143 They had all been preserved.
What had been lost, since I had not put them in safe, were my
notebooks with Xlebnikov's works in which he had made cor­
rections by hand or filled in various blanks.
There was never an instance when Xlebnikov would speak
sharply about someone. He was very restrained and very much,
so to speak, a loner. He was a distracted man, a sort of home­
less eccentric in the extreme.
In general people were delighted by Xlebnikov; they under­
stood that he was a great poet. But at the Briks' at the time one
could never say that Xlebnikov was greater than Majakovskij.
(But then again, how can one possibly say such things?) For
me the title of Burljuk's lecture, "Pushkin and Xlebnikov," was
entirely natural. 1 44 I accepted him completely and entirely: I
think people have still not recognized him genuinely, that he
will be discovered in the future. In order for that to happen,
what is needed is a good edition of his works; it is impossible
to read him in Stepanov's edition. Kruchenyx understood him
profoundly, though on the other hand he took a lot on faith:
M EM O I R S / 61
"Do you really like 'A Vila and a Wood Goblin'? It simply is."
Xlebnikov meant the most to Aseev, who was in rapture
over his verse. But he was completely alien to Pasternak; I
heard this from him more than once. Pasternak said that he
simply did not understand Xlebnikov at all.
Majakovskij liked Pasternak a lot, whereas my attitude toward
the early Pasternak was rather ambivalent: an interesting poet,
but of a completely different caliber. I remember how Volodja
read, with great enthusiasm, the poem "I was born yesterday. I
don't respect myself . . . " from the collection Above the Barriers.
He knew many of the poems from Above the Barriers by heart
and read them aloud with enthusiasm, but it was My Sister Lift
that made the greatest impression on him.
Pasternak had already read a whole series of poems from
this collection to Majakovskij, and once Majakovskij invited
him to the Briks' to give a reading. There was a dinner with
drinks, a real dinner, almost ceremonial, which at the time was
a rarity. Besides the Briks and Pasternak, Majakovskij and I
were present.
He read, with unbelievable animation, the entire cycle My
Sister Lift, from the first page to the last. It produced a com­
pletely flabbergasting impression, especially "About These
Verses," as well as all the swaying, windy poems, such as "In
the mirror there is a steaming cup of cocoa," and in particular,
"My Sister Life" itself. Everyone received it enthusiastically,145
From that moment on I valued Pasternak very much.
Trubetzkoy blamed me for considering him a great poet. He
had been a schoolmate of Pasternak at the university and con­
sidered him a second-rate poet. But nevertheless I wrote, being
62 / MY FUTUR I S T Y E ARS
completely convinced of it, that the two genuine poets, from an
historical point of view, were Xlebnikov and Majakovskij. Later
I added the names of Pasternak, Mandel 'shtam, and Aseev.146
After this reading Osja said to me: "The funniest thing is
that Pasternak thinks that he's a philosopher, while, actually,
from a philosophical point of view it's all nonsense. These are
great poems, but philosophically speaking, both his and
Volodja's poems aren't worth anything." In general, Brik
thought that poets weren't very intelligent: "Take a look at
Pushkin's letters to his wife; a porter writes more interesting
letters to his wife. Volodja writes the same sort of letters to
Lilichka that Pushkin wrote to his wife. It's complete vulgari­
ty, since everything genuine went into the poems."
I recall how after a meeting of IMO, we were walking with
Malkin along one of the Moscow boulevards. 147 Volodja asked
Pasternak quite ironically in reference to me: "Roma doesn't
understand why for him this is verse, whereas for me it's sim­
ply prose: 'Holy server of the world, redeemer of all sins, the
sun in your palm is on my head.' Where's the rhyme?"148 And
Pasternak, to my amazement, said: "For me poems without
rhyme are nonexistent." It was striking how they both defend­
ed this proposition before me in detail. Earlier such a concept
could not be found in Russia, not even in Blok.
Pasternak was very talkative, even chatty. He was quite vain,
but at the same time was full of his own grief He lived by it,
and it could be quite exhausting. He was constantly on edge,
but completely sincere and open: "What will come of this?
Whose fault is it? What should we do?" He was a very lively
person, but also a person who was a bundle of nerves, no mat­
ter in what area-in music, in relation to women, in relation to
poetry, in relation to events, in relation to the duty of a poet.
MEMOIRS / 6 3
We did not carry on a correspondence. But when I sent him
my article about him,149 I received a letter from him that was
forty pages in length. It perished; when I left Czechoslovakia in
1939, I gave it to one of my students, who destroyed it out of
fear. In this letter Pasternak spoke of himself, of his life, and
about the fact that my article produced an enormous impres­
sion on him, that he saw that he was understood. He discusses
this in his letter to Josef Hora. He also wrote about what an
incredible experience it was for him to see his poems, which
Hora had translated, and his prose, which my wife had trans­
lated, in another Slavic language. 150 They were not the same,
yet not different. For him it was a moment when he was unable
to break away from his earlier poems and could not move on to
something new. These Czech translations opened up for him
that possibility, since they showed him that such a shift was
possible.
Later in the same letter he wrote: "You know, Roman
Osipovich, I come more and more to the conviction that it is
among us, and not only among us, now, and perhaps not only
now, that the life of the poet-and perhaps not just the poet­
has become unwanted."1 5I That is a remarkable phrase.
Pasternak liked the fact that I wasn't a poet, but a linguist
who was close to poetry-which, actually, is what also created
my closeness to poets, rather than to linguists. I was particularly
close to the Russian poets-Majakovskij, Xlebnikov, Pasternak,
Aseev, and Kruchenyx-though I never related to the last as a
poet; we corresponded as two theoreticians, two "transrational"
theoreticians. Later I was close to the Czech poets-Nezval,
Seifert, and Vancura, partly to Biebl,152 and in Poland-to Julian
Tuwim and Wierzynski; in France-to Aragon. lS3
6 4 / MY F U T U R I ST Y E A R S
My parents lived on the third floor of Staxeev's house (no. 3)
on Lubjanskij Thruway. I lived in the same house on the floor
above, where I rented a room in the apartment of our friends,
Doctor Gur'jan and his family,154 though I would have meals
at my parents' when they were still in Moscow. When they left,
during the summer of 1918, I settled various of my linguist
friends in their apartment, for example, Afremov and his fam­
ily. 1 55 The dining room was left as it was, with the same furni­
ture, only various bookshelves were added for the Moscow
Linguistic Circle, and this became the premises of the Circle.
It was there that I hid Viktor Shklovskij, when they were
hard on his heels. He was a left-wing Socialist Revolutionary
(SR) and had been blowing up bridges. I left him on the couch
and said: "If anyone comes here, pretend that you're a piece of
paper and rustle!" He actually quoted this in his book A
Sentimental journey, as the words of an "archivist." 1 56 He tried
to leave and save himself, and noticed somewhere that they
were looking for him. At the time the Church of Christ the
Saviour had not yet been destroyed, and there were thick
bushes all around it. He had hidden and slept there, and came
to me all covered in prickles. 1 57 Then he appeared and told me
that he had managed to get from someone documents under
the name Golotkov, but that he had to type in answers to var­
ious points. He did this on my typewriter, and I was struck by
his quick-wittedness: he looked at the date given on the paper
and correspondingly wrote in the old orthography, since at that
time the new orthography was still not wide-spread. Then he
got ready to go, already as Golotkov, stripped naked, made up
his face, shaved his head, and was completely changed in
appearance. 158 At the time my teacher, Professor Nikolaj
Nikolaevich Durnovo, happened to drop by to see me. Seeing
a naked man who was shaving and making himself up, he
MEMO I R S / 6 5
didn't say anything-one didn't ask questions in those days­
and was hardly surprised. He started talking to me about his
discoveries in some Old Russian manuscripts (I think he men­
tioned the Ostromir Bible). But suddenly he did become sur­
prised: the guy standing there naked made various astute
philological observations.
Shklovskij understood that he wouldn't be able to get too
far, but he managed to drop by the apartment of Larissa
Reisner, who knew him. He explained to her that he would be
captured and that would be the end of him. Having made him
promise that he would behave himself, she left him at her
place, and herself went to get him a document, signed, if I'm
not mistaken, by Trockij, stating "whoever permits himself to
lay hands on the carrier of this document will be punished."
This is how he got out of his situation.159
In 1922, when Shklovskij came under suspicion and was to
have been arrested in connection with the trial of the Socialist
Revolutionaries, he fled to Finland.1 60 While he was in
Finland, there were various unpleasantries, and he had to
prove that he was not a Bolshevik. He wrote to Repin, asking
him to help him out. Repin replied with a letter that I kept.
(When Shklovskij later returned to Moscow, he left it with
me, and I gave it to the Slavic Library in Prague [Slovanska
knihovna, the entire collection of which was seized by the
Russians after the war] .) The letter was brief, written in
Repin's characteristic large script: "How could I forget you? I
liked you a lot; your features reminded me of Socrates. [I am
not sure now whether it was Socrates or someone else.] But
you write, asking that I certifY that you are not a Bolshevik,
and you write the letter in the Bolshevik orthography. How
can I possibly defend you?" And he did nothing for him.
66 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
.
.
.
Once Majakovskij told me that it was too crowded at the
Briks': "When I want to write, I need my own room." On the
fourth floor of Staxeev's house, above my parents' former
apartment, on the same landing where I lived, there lived a
certain Bal' shin. 161 He was a petty bourgeois, a very kind man,
but not very profound. At the time he had turned to me with
a request: "I'm afraid they're going to reduce the living space in
my flat. Don't you have some sort of good, peaceful tenant for
me?"-"I do."-"Who is he?" I said: "Volodja Majakovskij."
Bal'shin had not heard of Maj akovskij . "Where does he
work?" I said that he worked at ROSTA, but didn't say that he
was a poet. "Is he a quiet person?"-"Yes, he's quiet."-"Well,
introduce him to me!" I introduced them to one another, and
the following scene took place before my eyes.
Majakovskij agreed immediately. The door led directly to
the entrance; one could come and go easily. Bal'shin announced
how much it would cost, and Maj akovskij said: "What's with
you, what's with you, that's too little!" and offered him a larg­
er sum. Then Bal ' shin arranged for him so that everything
would be fancier, and, in particular, hung various horrible old
pictures on the walls. When Majakovskij arrived to live there,
he said: "Take away the ancestors!" And Bal 'shin did.162
Bal 'shin had also put there a piano with golden, so-called
wedding candles. These Maj akovskij accepted. Later he told
me: "This is what happened: at night the electricity went out
and I was working on a poem." (He was writing 150,000,000
at the time.) "I was really in the mood to write, and it was dark.
I remembered the candles and by dawn had burnt them all
down." Bar shin was terribly annoyed by this.
M EM O I R S / 6 7
Bal 'shin speculated on the black market, and he had a tele­
phone. He had paid quite a bit of money so that the phone
could be moved from room to room. And he was terribly angry
at Majakovskij: "He's always on the phone talking with his
Lilichka, talking, talking. . . . Then he goes out and locks the
door, leaving the telephone behind. I hear the phone ringing for
me, but I can't get in to answer it." So then Bal'shin again hired
a worker, this time to ftx the telephone in the wall, so that
Majakovskij couldn't take it to his room. Maj akovskij returned
late at night, went to grab the telephone, tugged at it, but it
wouldn't budge. He tugged harder; it still wouldn't budge. Then
he simply pulled it out with a chunk of the wall and brought it
into his room.
Bal'shin, even though he cursed Majakovskij, liked him a
lot. He cried like a baby when Maj akovskij shot himself. He
had become strongly attached to him, and Majakovskij to him,
in his own way.
I spent the summer of 1919 in Pushkino together with
Majakovskij and the Briks.1 63 We were at our leisure. We sat,
we read, we wrote. At the time I was studying Majakovskij's
rhymes, and Leva Grinkrug, who was also there, said ironical­
ly: "We're all fascinated by Majakovskij, but why make lists of
his rhymes?"164 At the time I was interested in the question of
shifting rhyme from the ending of a word to its root, as well as
the structure of rhymes in relation to their meaning, and in
relation to syntax. I had touched briefly on this in my essay on
Xlebnikov, but I never was able to return to the topic in detail
except in my lectures.
From our conversations in Pushkino I recall a lengthy dis­
cussion we had ahout the need to develop the published works
68 / MY F U TU RI S T Y E A R S
of OPOJAZ and the Moscow Linguistic Circle. There was a cer­
tain rivalry between these two institutions, and Brik, who was
at first more linked to the Petersburg group, now went over to
us. There was a lot being done in the Moscow Linguistic
Circle then on poetics, and it was different from what was
being done in OPOJAZ. The Moscow Linguistic Circle, was,
moreover, first and foremost a linguistic circle, and linguistics
played a very great role in it. Maj akovskij was very much inter­
ested in the structure of poems, spoke with me a lot about it,
and asked me a lot of questions about it.
In Pushkino I wrote the first draft of my analysis of ''And
grief grief-little grieving", which later, in America, came out
as part of a large study on parallelism.165 I was then working a
lot. Several works remained unfinished-on rhyme, on the
cries of street hawkers ("The greengrocer's come, the green­
grocer's driven up, peas, carrots, cucumbers he's grubbed up!"),
and so on. They interested me as a minimal, elementary man­
ifestation of poetry.
At the time I was working with Bogatyrev. We wanted to
write a book on the structure of folk theater. Our work later
became, to a certain extent, the basis for his book on the same
topic. 166
Once the four of us-the Briks, Volodja, and I-were din­
ing together on the balcony. We were eating kasha. Brik had
just returned from Moscow. With a certain affected serious­
ness and at the same time slightly ironically, he said: "Volodja,
today Shiman came to me at 1Z0 and lay before me a whole
series of sketches made by Gumilina of you and her," with a
hint that they were of a very personal and erotic nature; I don't
recall the terms he used, but it was clear what he meant.167 Lili
probably knew who Gumilina was, but she started up: "Who
is this? What is this? What's this about?"-"It was his wife,"
M E M O I R S / 69
said Osja, "-she committed suicide." There was a generally
rather tense mood, and Volodja, with affected cynicism, said:
"Well, with such a husband, who wouldn't throw oneself out
the window?" And Osja said: "So I said to him: 'Why are you
coming to me? Perhaps Majakovskij is interested in this stuff?
It doesn't interest me at all.'" All of this struck me, particular­
ly Majakovskij's tone. In my opinion, it's quite clear that this
suicide figures in the scenario How Are You ? 168
I had seen Gumilina with Majakovskij earlier. Elsa hinted
that she was attracted to Maj akovskij and gave me her story
"Two in One Heart" to read; it was lyric prose, quite striking.
Gumilina was a talented woman, a very good artist. She her­
self and Majakovskij were depicted in all her pictures. I recall
one picture quite well: a room just before morning, she is in a
shirt sitting on the bed, combing her hair. Majakovskij is
standing by the window, in trousers and a shirt, bare-footed,
with devilish hooves, exactly as in A Cloud in Trousers-"And
thus'; enormous'; I stood by the window'; and my brow melt­
ed the glass . . . . " Elsa told me that Gumilina was the heroine
of the last part of the poem.
I first saw Gumilina at Elsa's in the beginning of fall 1916,
when "Two in One Heart" had already been written. Volodj a
was angry that Elsa had invited her. We had a party, and we all
had a lot to drink. Volodj a was there, Gumilina, her brother, as
well as a very good-looking young girl, Rita Kon, who was
then studying ballet.
.
.
.
I first heard about 150,000,000 in the beginning of the
summer of 1919, in Pushkino. Majakovskij had asked me to
become the secretary ofIMO (the publisher ''Art of the Young"),
70 / MY F UT U R I S T Y E A R S
and in the publishing plan he included: "Ivan. A Bylina. An
Epos of the Revolution" without an indication of the author. 169
He told me: "You'll see what that is!"
We were going once from Pushkino to Moscow on some
sort of business. Volodj a didn't want to sit in the compart­
ment-he was terribly afraid of spotted typhus-and we were
'standing between the wagons, on the ties. Suddenly Volodja
asked me: "Listen: ta, ta, ta-ta, ta, ta-ta, ta, ta-ta, ta, ta­
ta, ta, ta-ta, ta, what's that called? Isn't it an hexameter?" I
said, yes, it sounded like a hexameter. "What do you think, to
begin an epos like that-would it be fitting or not?" This was,
as I later learned, the rhythm of the beginning of 150,000,000:
"St6 pjat'desj at ' milli6nov mastera etoj poemy imja."
When we reached Moscow, I wanted to get off, but Volodja
said: "Wait until all these people get out." I said: "Why?"-"I
don't like crowds."-"You? The poet of the masses!" He
replied: "The masses are one thing, a crowd's another."
Majakovskij had a passion for gathering mushrooms. I went
with him to hunt for mushrooms; this was natural, since there
was very little food to be had at the time. Suddenly he drove
me off: "Go in that direction; we'll talk later." At first I thought
that he was afraid I might intercept some special mushroom
patch he had found. But actually, as he later explained to me,
he considered being in a forest, hunting mushrooms, the best
place and activity for thinking up verses. He was writing
150,000, 000.
In the fall I learned more details about 150,000, 000; in
general he kept it a secret. I learned these details from his
landlord Bal 'shin, who told me with indignation about
Majakovskij : "You see, he sits with his Lilichka on the floor
painting posters; they paint and paint, and then he starts
shouting at her against Wilson, as if it weren't all the same to
MEMOIRS
I 71
Wilson." That's how I learned that there was something about
Wilson in the poem.
Then he invited me over and read me the beginning, which
made an enormous impression on me. The second time he
invited me over with Shklovskij,l7O who was staying overnight
at my place, and read us the part about the start of the Civil
War in all of Moscow and all of Russia. I said that I didn't like
it, that this was a big step down in his work. If he had to do it,
then in any case let it not be so abstract and propagandistic, but
better totally concrete everyday scenes from popular prints.
And he did so; he included several such scenes, such as: "But
immovable, / Narkompros / grew up in Ostozhenka, / stood
upright / and still stands." Nevertheless, this part didn't come
out very well. But on the other hand, I liked the last part very
much: "Perhaps it is the hundredth anniversary of the October
Revolution." This is a requiem. l 7l He read it beautifully.
He read 150, 000,000 for the first time at the Briks' .172 I
recall how their very good-looking cook and housekeeper sat
on the floor and listened with amazement. This was still not
the final draft, but the draft which I brought to Prague and
later gave to Bonch-Bruevich through Bogatyrev. (Bogatyrev
collected Russica for Bonch-Bruevich, and this saved his life:
when the war began, he was permitted to return to Moscow.) 173
In this text there are many divergences from the later, printed
text, which are, by the way, hardly coincidenta1.174 For example:
To be a bourgeois
is not just
to have capital
and squander gold,
It's to be
the heel of corpses
on the neck
of the young.
72 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
It's a closed mouth
full of lumps of fat.
To be a proletarian
doesn't mean being
Dirty
or being the one
keeping factories going.
To be a proletarian
is to love the future,
having blown up
the filth of basements,
to believe in it !
In the printed text this went:
Not to Trockij
Not to Lenin
a tender verse.
I praise millions
in battles,
I see millions,
millions I sing.
Lunacharskij was at this reading. This was necessary in order
that he would speak in favor ofhaving it published. (Mterwards,
it wasn't published for a long time, and when it finally was,
Lunacharskij, as is well-known, got it from Lenin.) 1 75 There fol­
lowed a discussion. Lunacharskij spoke about the fact that it
made a very strong impression and that he was glad that a poet
was coming forward so strongly for the revo1ution. 1 76 But, when
one listened to it, one wasn't sure whether it was rhetorical or
sincere. I took part in the discussion and said: ''Anato1ij
Vasil'evich, aren't we being like viewers in the Artistic Theater,
who for the most part think only about whether the columns on
stage are real or made of cardboard?" 1 77
MEMOIRS I 7 3
Lunacharskij reacted to this i n a very kind way. I n general
he had the style of a Russian benevolent intellectual. I remem­
ber how at the very beginning of 1920, just before my first trip
to Revel', I was picked as a professor of Russian orthoepy, on
the one hand in the First Drama School, 1 78 and on the other
in Serezhnikov's Institute ofDeclamation. 1 79 Lunacharskij was
invited as an honored guest to the opening of the Institute.
They served some sort of pirog. Pirog was then a rarity, and
everyone attacked it. "Wait a minute, wait a minute,"
Serezhnikov shouted, "the People's Commissar wants some of
the pirog! Pass the pirog to the People's Commissar!" But they
had already gobbled it all down. 180
Majakovskij read 150,000, 000 for the second time in the
Moscow Linguistic Circle.1 8 1 I remember it quite well. He had
brought along Gaj-Men 'shoj . 182 There was a fairly large
crowd: Nejshtadt, Vinokur, Buslaev and others. Mter the read­
ing there was a discussion. During the discussion Volodja took
notes. I said something about the poem's connection with
byliny, someone spoke about Derzhavin, someone else about
Kol' cov, and when Volodja answered, he said: "People say:
byliny, Derzhavin, Kol ' cov, but actually it's not the one, the
other, or the third, but one hundred and fifty million."183
There was never any idyll, only a battle, all the time. There
were moments of break-throughs-for example, when the
parks in Moscow were painted in various colors on the occa­
sion of May Day-but in the general complexity one had to be
constantly on the alert. Majakovskij also went into an embit­
tered mood when he had to speak in various institutions.
Once, wh e n he was drawing posters for ROSTA, in a moment
7 4 / MY F U T U R I ST Y E A R S
of respite he drew the following caricature: on one side a
fortress, with three lines of defenders, with the Red Army
breaking through all three rows; on the other side Lunacharskij,
with three rows of secretaries around him, with Majakovskij
trying to break through all three rows unsuccesfully. 184 Or he
would go to the State Publishing House, to Vorovskij, and
shout: ''And how do you publish me? Pushkin gets decent type!
And me, I'm just some sort of sewn-in muddle!"
Majakovskij's attitude toward Lunacharskij was ambivalent.
On the one hand, he was a man who recognized his impor­
tance and often tried to help him. On the other hand,
Majakovskij saw in him a strong bureaucratic principle and,
moreover, an opportunistic streak, the type of opportunism
that finds a curious reflection in the lines of both of the last
plays ( The Bedbug and The Bathhouse), where there is a direct
mention of Lunacharskij Street, 185 and where the phraseology
of Pobedonosikov parodically reflects that of Anatolij
Vasil 'evich.
Majakovskij was terribly afraid that the revolution would
become philistine, that it would be overgrown by vulgarity. He
had a total hatred of such an overgrowth. The poem "The
Fifth International" was to have been devoted to this theme.
And it seemed to him for a long time that in the near future
one could raise what he called "The Revolution of the Spirit"
against philistinization, against conservatism in architecture,
against growing numb on the operas of Verdi, and so on.
But at the same time,-although he announced that this
would not happen,-he was afraid that vulgarity would be vic­
torious. He had a sharp and far from happy prognosis. He
sensed the invasion of vulgarity into private life, into art, into
culture, into everything. We spoke several times about the
poem that he was writing to one of the Internationals, but
M EM O I R S / 75
which he never finished. When he was writing this poem, he
was quite unsure and quite irritable about whether the peom
would cause attacks and quarrels. It seemed to him the most
important thing he had done, the most important in its broad
grasp of themes. In general, the question of the "Revolution of
the Spirit" was for him for a long time the basic question of
the October revolution; it was precisely from the point of view
of the "Revolution of the Spirit" that Majakovskij defined his
attitude toward October,186
I recall how he read me one of the versions of the "Inter­
national," and he read it remarkably. It was all deeply thought
through as poetry. In talks about this poem he insisted on the
cunning combination of logic and transrationalism. When I
said to him that the course of the poem was becoming very
rationalistic, even journalistic, he became angry, grinned, and
said: "But didn't you notice that all of the solutions of the
mathematical formulae and so on I give are completely trans­
rational?"-that this was only apparent; an apparent fear of
poetry, a fear of verse, but actually it was all constructed as a
satirical transrationalism.
Separate stanzas seem quite logical:
I
permit
poetry only one form:
brevity,
exactness,
the exactness of mathemathical formulae.
And then, suddenly, there are completely transrational phrases:
Axiom:
All people have a neck.
Task:
How
can
the poet lise it.
76 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
He insisted on the unexpectedness of combinations, in
particular, on what follows when, in his words, the most inter­
esting thing starts, when events at the end of the twenty-first
century start. And he asked me: "What do you think, what
will come, what should follow this? Can you guess?" and told
me in advance: "A picture of unbearable boredome, a picture
of unbearable vulgarization-a vulgarization inescapably
demanding a new revolution."
It is quite curious how this changed all the time with him,
even not in the course of years, but in the course of a conver­
sation:-"What is it, immediate events, conversations with
Lenin are at hand? Or is it something that will happen in five
hundred years?" In any event, this was a sacred theme. Of
course he understood that this theme was becoming more and
more unacceptable for the S oviet norm. And he was unable to
find the possibilities that would have enabled him to raise
what were for him the most pressing questions. This was an
extremely difficult theme, which became even harder begin­
ning with the title: which International was it? So it changed
all the time: the "fourth," the "fifth," and so on. This "new
rebellion / in a future / of communist satieity" is a theme that
haunted him then. It was not just a theme-it was the theme.
Majakovskij had absolutely no idea of what was to come. In
this respect he was totally blind, as, by the way, was Brik. Brik
imagined that there would be democracy and discussion with­
in the party; he absolutely did not imagine there would be a
total liquidation of fractionalism. Volodj a actually imagined
that the commune
is a place,
where bureaucrats will disappear
and where there will be many
poems and songs. 187
M EM O I R S / 7 7
He believed in this. And he believed that he would make a
great accomplishment when he wrote his "Fifth," if not
"Fourth" International. He asked me about Einstein, and I
never saw him so full of enthusiasm. He really believed that
the dead would be resurrected, an idea from Fedorov. 188
Volodja was so full of admiration for Einstein that he tried to
persuade me that we should send him a telegram through
ROSTA with "greetings to the science of the future from the art
of the future."189 I don't recall whether it was sent or not.
He couldn't tolerate the thought that Russia would come to
Socialist Realism, that they would play "La Traviata," "Onegin,"
and so on, and that the country would be deeply conservative
and reactionary in relation to art.
He had the most incredible attitude toward everything. He
absolutely couldn't imagine that there would be a cult of the
machine, a cult of industry. All of this didn't interest him at all:
actually, he was a terrible romantic. But Xlebnikov understood:
"But when my turn comes, / my flesh will become dust." 190
I saw a lot of Majakovskij when we were neighbors. Either
he would drop by my place, or I would drop by his-one had
only to cross the landing, that was all. l91
In the spring, I believe in April, of 1920, Majakovskij came
by my room and said: "I've written a play; would you like me
to read it?" And he began reading: "So who spends their time
celebrating holidays . . . . "192 He read it through, and I was
seized by annoyance. It seemed to me to be some sort of
dadaistic propaganda, with the propaganda interfering with
the dadaism and the dadaism interfering with the propaganda.
It came out with the slightest wittiness and was simply boring.
Sparing his vanity, I said: "Volodja, this is a repetition of the
least best lines of Mystery-BouJfi, and isn't very interesting."
He was quite upset.
78 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
At the time there still rang out motifs from Mystery-Bouffe.
But what there sometimes blazed with poetic and rhetorical
wit, seemed simply untolerable in such short texts, which, for
the most part, remained unpublished for a long time. 1 93
II
Shortly after Majakovskij read 150,000,000 in the Moscow
Linguistic Circle in January 1920 1 ended up in Reval quite by
chance.
Earlier, when 1 had spotted typhus, 1 had forgotten to apply
for a deferment from military service, in order not to be sent
to the front during the Civil War. 1 had the right to a defer­
ment, since 1 was an advanced graduate student at the univer­
sity. This was strictly a formality; they gave them away at the
time for nothing, but it was the law.
But 1 had missed the opportunity, and 1 was summoned and
told: "You have to appear immediately with the proper docu­
ments, or else, you know, you will be considered a deserter."
That day 1 was scheduled to have my usual poker game, in
which Majakovskij almost always took part. Also playing was
an acquaintance of mine who occupied a rather high position
in Glavles, the Department of Forestry; it was a military insti­
tution, and people who worked there were not called to the
front. When we had finished playing, he said to me: "Well,
when will we play again?" 1 said: "I don't know. It turns out I'm
a deserter, and 1 have to take certain measures immediately."
M EM O I R S I 7 9
"Oh, forget about it, I'll take care of it for you." So suddenly,
out of the blue, he made me secretary of the Economic­
Informational Division of Glavtop, the Main Committee for
Heating. This was at the beginning of the fall of 1919.
I worked at Glavtop for two or three months, until it
became clear that I would not be called to the front. I even
called on Pokrovskij 1 94-a most unpleasant figure,-but they
gave me the deferment, and then I left Glavtop. My boss told
me at the time: "Oh, what a shame it is that you are leaving.
You could have made yourself a great career here; you have
enormous capacities for this sort of work." In general he was a
curious person, absolutely outside the party, Petr Mixailovich
Shox, a good economist.
At Glavtop they would give out ration coupons sporadical­
ly, and once they gave us rations for marinated mushrooms.
Then I decided: no matter what, I'm keeping only half for the
house (I gave them to our landlady), and with the rest we'll
have a drinking party. We gathered at the Moscow Linguistic
Circle. I got a hold of some alcohol through friends of
Majakovskij . The sale of alcohol was strictly forbidden and was
punishable by execution. But there were sellers-Caucasians
or Georgians. Majakovskij spoke with them in Georgian, so
they trusted him. They were called "Spirtashvili." 195 I bought
the alcohol from one of the Spirtashvilis, and we arranged the
party by pooling our resources: the marinated mushrooms,
some sort of biscuits (we couldn't get any bread), and vodka.
In the Circle there was a fireproof safe that had been left
there by my father, the same one in which Xlebnikov's manu­
scripts were kept. 1 96 Petr Mixailovich Shox climbed on top of
this safe and said: "Comrades! Bolshevism is not a political
problem, it is not a social or economic problem, it's a cosmic
problem. How can the world tolerate so much stupidity?"
80 I MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
When I left Clavtop, Vitja Shklovskij invited me to give a
lecture in OPOJAZ. I was terribly pleased, since Clavtop had
exhausted me incredibly; I was exhausted from it all because it
was so against my grain. For a while I lived at the Shklovskijs',
that is at his parents' place; his father was a teacher in some
sort of school for workers. 1 97 Later I moved to the place of an
acquaintance, Nadja, a very dear young lady who later became
an actress and dramatic writer. 1 98
I attended the meetings of OPOJAZ. We met in the House
of Writers, which Kornej Chukovskij was in charge of. He
warned Shklovskij that everything should be quiet, that there
should be no scandals: "You know, we're very tolerant."
Shklovskij answered him: "Yes, yes, I know that you have a
'house of tolerance' [i.e., a brothel] ."
There I met the most various people, for example, Akima
Volynskij, a specialist on Dostoevskij, and other older literary
scholars. I gave two lectures. The first was against Brjusov's
book The Science of Verse. When I left after the lecture, a man
of the Petersburg style, very polite and self-possessed,
approached me; it was Cumilev, who excused himself before
me for having been unable to come to my lecture and said that
he would definitely come to my lecture on Xlebnikov; the first
was in the Circle, and it was very successful. Polivanov,
Jakubinskij and others spoke. This was at the end of November
or the beginning of December of 1919. 1 99
Then I returned, spending the New Year's in Moscow. As I
left, Nadja asked me to deliver a letter to an acquaintance of
hers. The letter was too important to send by post. (Mail then
was without stamps, most of the letters were simply thrown
away, little got through.) This acquaintance was Cennadij
Janov, who occupied a rather high position under Chicherin
in Narkominde1, the People's Commissariat of Foreign Affairs.
MEMOIRS / 8 1
I knew him: he was five years younger than me and an
acquaintance of my brother.2 0o
I showed up at his office. He worked at some reception office
in the Commissariat of Foreign Affairs. There were armchairs,
rugs, the place was clean-for those times this seemed like a
great comfort; we had already grown unaccustomed to this. I
give him the letter. He read it, then asked me: ''And what are you
doing, Roma?" I told him in a couple of words how I had been
working at Glavtop, that I was back in advanced studies at the
university, and that I had to look for some sort of work, since
studying wasn't sufficient to live on. "Listen, how would you like
to go abroad?" This was a strange question, since at the time
there was a total blockade. "Which abroad?"-"Reval."­
"Well," I said, "that isn't too far abroad. Well, what the hell, I
won't refuse, but when and for how long?"-"We need a person
who knows languages; our first diplomatic representatives are
going there." (I later asked him why he had proposed it to me so
simply, without knowing, actually, anything about me. "It was
practically impossible to find someone," he replied. "Why?"­
"They're afraid that the White Guardists will blow them up the
minute they cross the border." But I wasn't afraid.)
I returned home to my friends the Gur jans. Their mother
was at home. I said: "You know, in two days' time I'm going
abroad."-"Oh, stop playing the fool! You're always thinking
up such things! Why it's not even funny!"
I left; all my books and manuscripts were left behind . . . . I
didn't know for how long it would be, how it would be, or what
it would be; I didn't know a thing. This was at the beginning
of 1920, between Tat 'jana's Day, which I spent in Moscow, and
Shrovetide, when I was already in Reval. 20 1
When I was on the train, there were two others sitting with
me in the same com p artment: one, who was supposed to be my
82 I MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
chauffeur in the Press Office,-Mixail Levidov, a pleasant and
cultured person, who later perished, at the end of the
1930's202-and the other, Gaj -Men 'shoj, who was being sent
by the Comintern to Reval. Both greeted me in a very friend­
ly way. Gaj kept himself somewhat apart, but generally he was
a kind person and very direct.
Both of Gaj -Men 'shoj 's names were pseudonyms. He was
an American Jew of Russian origin, the son of emigrants from
Russia. He spoke Russian with a slight American accent. He
got through to Moscow after traveling the entire length of
Siberia during the Civil War. He worked at Pravda and in the
Comintern, and his main friend and protector was Zinov' ev.
He played a large role in Pravda, where he was one of the main
collaborators. It seems that at Pravda he was Men 'shoj, and in
the Comintern-Gaj. He had only been in Reval a short time.
I recall him quite well at a reception for the leaders of the
Italian Communist Party, who came to Moscow for the first
time. With them was a certain young Italian, a futurist, the
sole futurist-communist, Arturo Cappa, who was terribly
upset that Marinetti had gone to the right. 203
Gaj -Men 'shoj was one of the first to go; he had become
disillusioned quickly and thoroughly. Having returned to
Moscow, he began to write, thanks to Martov, articles under a
pseudonym in The Socialist Herald, a Menshevik journal that
came out in Berlin. His thesis was that the Soviet regime was
being reborn into a fascist regime, that Russia would become
a very chauvinistic country, basing itself on brute force. He was
captured, was in exile at Solovki for a while, and was later shot.
Men 'shoj and Levidov fell asleep, but I couldn't get to sleep,
so I went and walked in the corridor. There I met Klyshko, who
had worked for a short time in the mission as its first secretary.
Earlier he had worked under Vorovskij in the State Publishing
MEMOIRS / 83
House as an assistant in an administrative capacity. 204 Klyshko
was a very passionate communist even in pre-Revolutionary
times, and also a devote Orthodox Christian. He tried to con­
vince me that he didn't see a contradiction in this, that now, in
Russia, where the Church was completely apolitical, such a
combination was entirely possible. I told him that I had once
been in the State Publishing House. "With whom?"-"With
Majakovskij ." He immediately began attacking Majakovskij in
a rage, saying that it was precisely such parasites who were
most dangerous for us, who played various games in order to
get themselves the best royalties and make themselves a name,
people who had nothing in common with the revolution. I
argued with him quite openly all night long.
We traveled a long time. For the greater part of the trip­
thirty-five kilometers or more, if I'm not mistaken,-we had
to go on sleds, since the rails had been destroyed in the Civil
War. The entire staff of the diplomatic mission was traveling
with us, typists and others. We were met at a border town,
Narva, where the Minister of War of Estonia gave us dinner:
buttered bread with kolbasa and ham-in that terrible year of
starvation. . . . The higher-ups contained themselves, but the
girls literally threw themselves on the food, as if they hadn't
eaten anything for two years, totally ignoring any commands
to behave themselves properly.
After a while I took a leave and went to Moscow. After my
return from Reval I made the acquaintance of two young
Polish scholars. (They were communists, and both were "ille­
gally liquidated" in the late 1930s.) One of them invited me to
go to Prague as p art of the Red Cross Mission. The Mission's
8 4 / MY F U TU RI S T Y E A R S
task was the repatriation of former Russian prisoners of war,
who had been stranded in Czechoslovakia since Austro­
Hungarian times. The other task was to attempt to establish
diplomatic relations with Czechoslovakia. "You know Czech,
don't you?" I said that I knew it from the course I had taken on
the comparative grammar of Slavic languages.-"Where
would we ever find such a one!"
The head of the Mission was Dr. Gillerson, who took me
on with pleasure, and took me on, moreover, on conditions
that were, I must say, most honest. He asked me why I want­
ed to go. I told him the truth: when I became an advanced
graduate student at the university, they told me it would be
desirable for me to have a closer acquaintance with other
Slavic countries and languages, and that I wanted to work at
the university in Prague. He replied: "If it's possible for you to
combine the two, then that's fine." Later it turned out that he
was against my working in the university, since there were
some sort of counter-revolutionaries there opposed to
Moscow. And then he asked me to make a choice: "I'll let you
choose what you want." I chose the university, but we
remained in good relations. He later ended up an emigre him­
self and died in Prague just before World War II.
At the end of May 1920, I again went to Reval, where the
Red Cross Mission was awaiting its departure for Prague.20S
Two young men, practically boys, came to Reval: one was
Levin, who many years later, after returning home, perished;
the other was the diplomatic courier Teodor Nette. They came
up to me and asked me whether I knew Professor Jakobson. I
replied: "Professor Jakobson doesn't exist, but I am Jakobson."
(I was then twenty-three years old, but I looked much younger,
practically like a boy. When, just before this, I was giving my
opening lecture at the First Dramatic School, they asked me to
MEMOIRS / 85
show my entrance ticket at the door. I told them that I didn't
have a ticket: "I'm giving the lecture."-"Don't play the
fool!"-They didn't believe me.)
We had to wait for Gillerson, and Nette, Levin, and I spent
several days and nights in Reval. We departed Reval in the first
days ofJuly by sea to Stettin, and from there traveled to Prague
by train, with a stop in Berlin. 206 Nette and I shared the same
cabin and instantly became fast friends. He told me the story
of his life. He had worked from childhood in a shoe-maker's
shop together with his father, I don't recall in which Latvian
town, and while still an adolescent landed in jail with his
father for taking part in the revolutionary movement. Later he
took part in the revolution and worked in Soviet Latvia during
the brief period of its existence. In Nette a masculine cast was
combined with a rare kindness, heartfeltness, shyness and
purity of soul. He loved poetry adamantly, both Latvian and
Russian. He spoke Russian fluently, but with a slight Latvian
accent.
At night in the cabin I started talking to him about
Majakovskij. He was slightly skeptical about Majakovskij, as
was the rule at the time, especially in the circles of the Com­
missariat of Foreign Affairs. Then I took out the typescript of
150,000,000, which had a lot of manuscript corrections by the
author, which I was supposed to try to have published abroad.
At first I read a section of it, but Nette couldn't calm down until
I read him the entire poem. He was in an extraordinary state of
enthusiasm, and said that these were the first real verses of the
revolutionary years that could not help but sting one to the
quick. He was indignant that people judged Majakovskij, and I
had to swear to him that when he went back to Moscow I
would give him a letter to personally deliver to Majakovskij. He
read me the f�lmolls Latvian poet Rainis. 207 I didn't understand
86 I M Y F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
Latvian, but it was interesting to listen to the rhymes, and he
translated some of the lines for me.
We arrived in Prague on the tenth of July, and I left the
Mission in September. Nette stayed there until the end of the
year. We wandered around the city together. He was enrap­
tured by the beauty and grandness of its old architecture,
which reminded him at times of old Riga. In general, N ette
tended to get carried away by things. Thus, for example, he
found a small, typical Prague cafe, very comfortable and
charming, the cafe Derby. There was an old piano in the cafe,
which was played by some sort of has-been, who was, howev­
er, a very talented pianist. And it made such an impression on
him that he brought me there.
It happened that later, quite a while later, I lived for a few
years near this cafe, and it became my hang-out. I didn't have
any money, ate only three or four times a week-it was very
hard to go by the sausage shops on the days I didn't eat-and
my room wasn't even heated. So I would sit there for several
hours at a time with a cup of black coffee (black coffee was
cheaper) and a single roll. They would bring me an ink-well
and a pen, and it was there that I wrote my book on Czech
verse. 208 I was considered a regular, so to speak, and they treat­
ed me marvelously.
However strange it may seem, this cafe later played a role
not only in my life, but also in the scholarly life of Prague. It
was there that the Prague Linguistic Circle was created, and
the meetings of the Committee always took place in this cafe.
It was there, for example, that Mathesius' theses were written.
Once Nette learned that a communist bookkeeper in the
Commissariat of Foreign Affairs had committed some sort of
financial embezzlement, and he was sentenced, it seems, to
capital punishment. Nette broke into tears, and Levin said to
MEMOIRS / 87
him: "Listen, you probably shot barons?" Nette answered: "But
those were barons, while this is a comrade."
Nette was quite attached to me. Even when I left the
Mission for the first time, in order to work in the university, he
was always hanging around me. He would ask me about liter­
ary and cultural life, and would say that being a courier was
only a temporary job for him, that he wanted to study.
To help characterize him: once I received a very sharp let­
ter from a certain person in Reval. It was a letter I deserved; I
had had a personal confrontation with him. When I showed it
to Nette, he said his next route lay through Reval and that he
would go to the man and give him a slap in the face.
I fulfilled my promise to Nette and through him sent a let­
ter to Majakovskij with a few lines about him. In May or June
1921 I ended up in Berlin at the same time as Nette. He told
me how much he had liked Majakovskij , how cheerfully
Majakovskij had received him, and how they both "chatted
about Romka Jakobson.''209 He made me very happy with
news of the publication of 150,000, 000, made me a gift of the
"anonymous" book,21 0 and I drafted the first announcement
about it for the Berlin newspaper Nakanune.2l1 In October of
1922, I ended up again in Berlin, arriving almost directly at an
evening of Majakovskij reading his poetry. After it the five of
us sat together drinking wine-Volodja, Lili, Osja, Shklovskij
and I-and Majakovskij reminded me, with an affectionate
grin: "Your Nette with the letter-he's an eccentric, but very
nice." Lili remembered him as well.
Nette left Prague at the end of 1920 or beginning of 1921.
I later saw him a couple of times, when he was bringing the
diplomatic post to Prague. As earlier, we were tied together by
a strong friendship and of course reminisced about
Majakovskij. whose verses he now knew from cover to cover.
88 / MY F U T U RI S T Y E A R S
Nette, who already in 1920 had dreamt of leaving his job and
taking up full-time studies, spoke about his plan with even
greater insistence. 212 But he was so dedicated a person and it
was so easy to be confident of him, that he delayed his entrance
into the university time and again. He conceded reluctantly
and met an untimely end; during one of his trips he was killed
by Latvian fascists.
Thus is explained the line about me in Majakovskij's poem
to Teodor Nette. They actually travelled together several times
in the compartment for diplomatic couriers, and in view of the
fact that their main theme in common was their acquanitance
with me, they really "chatted" about me. Majakovskij later read
me the poem.
Even when I was working for the Mission, I was fed up
with my position there. Skaftymov, who was the dean of the
philological faculty at Saratov University,213 wrote and offered
me a professorship there. I then wrote my great friend and
teacher Ushakov a letter about the fact that I was tired of being
so distant from Russian scholarship and that I had received an
offer. He answered me with a post card: "When you want to
dance, you have to remember not only the stove you're danc­
ing away from, but also the wall you're dancing toward."
They related to me well in the Mission. Everything was
done in an improvisational way. Later the first Envoy,
Mostovenko, arrived, in the beginning of the summer of
192 1 .214 I often dropped by Levin, the secretary of Gillerson,
who would give me something to eat; he would get a large din­
ner with plenty of knedliche, but would eat few of them. Once
'
he said to me: "Sit here a while; I have to meet with the
Envoy." I eat something, had a beer, and lay down on the
couch. When he returned, he woke me up and told me: "You
know, M6stovenko wants to see you."-UWhy?"-UHc said
M E M O I R S / 89
that he needs a person who knows Czech language and is gen­
erally familiar with Czech culture, history, and so on, and that
he spoke about it with Chicherin." And Chicherin told him:
"Take Jakobson."21 5 Mostovenko proposed that I become a
free-lance worker for the Diplomatic Mission, and I worked
there part-time until 1928.
Antonov-Ovseenko received me most warmly. 216 He was a
follower of Trockij, and when he returned from Germany,
where he had said farewell to Trockij, he told me what Trockij
had said to him: "I know the end has come, but it is necessary
for me to perish having kept my armour clean." Later, when
purges began and they demanded that he fire all non-party
members, and me especially-1 had plenty of enemies there­
he felt quite guilty before me. He said: "Stay here." And he
approved of my working in the editorial board of Slavische
Rundschau, so that I would, as it were, not be breaking the new
rule.
I was, I must say, a reckless youth; I always had a "futuristic
ferment." They sent us forms that we had to fill out. There was
a question: "With which party do you sympathize, if you are
not a member of the party?" I left it blank. Then the form was
returned to me, and I was told that one could not leave an item
unanswered. So I answered: "None."
I already knew that I would leave the Mission. I could have
left earlier, if I had not had a lack of faith in my own abilities.
For example, I couldn't bring myself to take the Ph.D. exam
for a long time, even though I needed a Czech doctorate.
During his first visit to Prague, in 1927, Majakovskij stayed in
a hotel for prostitllcs on Vaclav Place; rooms weren't available
90 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
anywhere else. 217 There were various curtains and double beds,
and he said: "I feel like Madame de Pompadour."
They arranged an evening of readings for him at the
Mission, 218 Qiite a few people came. In general he was received
rather so-so, though Antonov-Ovseenko and the councilor
Kaljuzhnyj greeted him quite warmly. Majakovskij said: "When
a worker starts working, he takes off his jacket," took off his
jacket and began to read. For the most part he read his poems
about his trip to America, including the poem "Homeward!"
Then he turned to Bogatyrev and to me and said: "Here sit two
people who genuinely appreciate poetry. For them I should like
to read 'A Shallow Philosophy in Deep Places.'"
Afterwards there was a public reading, where he read the
poems of other poets, in particular Sel 'vinskij, from memory
and rather freely. He read Aseev's "Bull" and "Blue Hussars."
Bohumil Mathesius, a cousin of the linguist Mathesius, did a
translation of 150, 000, 000 with my help, 21 9 and Josef Hora
read a section from the translation. Then Majakovskij was
asked to read the poem in Russian, and he refused point­
blank. I was surprised. He wouldn't read it for anything. In
general, he rather disliked reading his older poems. 220
At the time Majakovskij was complaining a lot about the
State Publishing Company: "What fools we have," he would
say. "They think that if I write poems with short lines, I'm
doing it for the money. But it is closely linked with the vers­
es." They got particularly mad when he had a very short line
consisting of one word. How to pay him was an eternal squab­
ble. They finally agreed to pay him by the word. He said that
it was particularly jolly when he ended up with three words of
the type: "and for yoU."22 1
During this visit Majakovskij read me his verses about Paris
with the lines:
MEMOIRS / 9 1
I would like
to live
and die in Paris,
if there weren't
such a land
as Moscow.
He said: "This line can't be changed. One couldn't, for
example, write 'I'd like to live and die in Berlin, if there weren't
such a land as Warsaw.' Those are not two different worlds, but
Paris and Moscow are." I immediately asked Majakovskij
whether, when he was writing the poem, he knew the similar
lines from Karamzin's Letters of a Russian Traveler: "I want to
live and die in my beloved country, but after Russia there is no
more pleasant land for me than Paris." Maj akovskij was fasci­
nated by this. No, he didn't know Karamzin's line: "But it goes
to show my lines are not accidental."222
Once Majakovskij asked my wife, Sofja Nikolaevna, to
show him the town. She took him along a long street. He
looked around with interest. "Well," he said, "shall we turn
around?"-"What do you mean, turn around?! You wanted to
see Prague!"-"I've seen it. First from one side, and now from
the other. They're different things, after all." And when Adolf
Hofmeister asked him: "What drew you to Prague?" he
answered: "I like details."223
In 1929 Majakovskij was received very coldly at the Mission;
whether it was because of him or because of me, I do not know.
But he was already in bad standing then. People coming from
Russia would tell me that it was considered both advantageous
and chic to ra� h i m , that whoever felt like it would attack him.
9 2 / MY F U T U R I ST Y E A R S
At the time he read The Bedbug to the director of the
Vinohradsky repertory theater, Kodicek, and I hoped that he
might do a production of it. But they decided that it wouldn't
work. He read remarkably. 224 Later we went and had a drink.
But Majakovskij was dying to get to Paris and spoke openly
about it, particularly with my wife, with whom he was great
friends: "You know, you fall in love, and everything else imme­
diately gets thrown aside." When he left, he told her: "Look, I
suddenly learned: one should love and not be jealous."
At the time he spoke with me in the tone of the poem "At
the Top of My Voice," that poetry was done for, that what was
being written wasn't poetry, that God only knew what was
going on, that what was being done was absolute servility.
III
Majakovskij was never happy, even when he was writing the
poem "I Love"; it also has the theme of time:
Women make themselves up.
Men do cartwheels according to Muller's system.
But it's too late.
The skin proliferates in wrinkles.
Love flowers,
and flowersand then withers and shrinks.225
He was a very seriously and deeply unhappy man, and one felt
it. Sometimes, when he was slightly tipsy, he had a certain
MEMOIRS / 93
wittiness o f his own . . . . H e was really a kind o f eternal adoles­
cent, and had a sort of interrupted development. Xlebnikov was
different: he wasn't unhappy, he was epic, he took life as it is.
Majakovskij was a lyric poet on a grand scale, and he truly
believed that he would return to lyric poetry all the time. I
heard this from him a dozen times. 226 He was very open with
me; he knew that whatever he told me would remain strictly
between us as long as he lived. And he did talk a lot, very
openly.
But he broke. I think he broke in the year he met Tat 'j ana
Jakovleva. Elsa wrote me then in detail-look, she said, what
a stupid thing to have happened: he meets a girl, thinks he'll
have a pleasant time, and he ups and falls in love, and so seri­
ously. And this was at a moment when he couldn't stand living
alone anymore, and when he had to change in some funda­
mental way. 227
Majakovskij could do nothing more. He was in too great a
despair. All he had were unanswered questions. What he wrote
in his farewell letter-"I have no choice"-was the truth. He
would have perished all the same, whatever happened, no mat­
ter where he was, whether in Russia, Sweden, or America. He
was a man absolutely unsuited for life.
People find this difficult to believe, but Majakovskij was
extremely sentimental. He was terribly cruel and aggressive to
people in front of a]arge circle, but as he writes in A Cloud in
Trousers:
It's fine, when a yellow shirt
Shields the soul from investigation!
9 4 / MY F U TU R I S T Y E A R S
Once he offended me over something, over some nonsense: he
said something that made me angry, and I left. Then he ran to
me in IZO, where I was working under Brik, called me onto the
stairway and started begging me with tears in his eyes not to
be offended or angry with him. I had already completely for­
gotten it all, which I told him, but he didn't believe me.
He was incredibly afraid of Lili. She could give him a
dressing-down, and he was finished. And, after all, she kept
him at a distance for a long time. But she had an iron self­
possession. She was totally carried away by his poems, and in
general he seemed to her to be a completely unusual man. But
he was a person who was not at all for her; she made him over
completely.
I knew some of the people who surrounded her, and I must
say they weren't the people for her, they weren't on her scale. She
fascinated them. I wouldn't say that she was beautiful, but there
was something quite unusual about her-both the color of her
skin and of her hair. She was a woman of unusual elegance.
I personally think that apart from Osja she loved no one.
And Osja was a person who could occupy himself today with
sound repetitions, tomorrow the art of love, the day after
tomorrow the organization of an unusually rational catalogue
of profiteers for the Chekha. At the beginning of April of
1917 Volodja said of him: "Here's a man without the slightest
sentimentality."
Majakovskij had a great deal of brotherly tenderness for
Elsa too, I would say. People think that it's not true, as she
relates in her memoirs, that she came to him in Petersburg,
because he had written her such desperate letters. But it's a
fact. 228 Many such things happened.
And together with this was an unbelievable roughness, as
well as an unbelievable egocentrism. Osja said of him: " Volodja
MEMOIRS / 95
thinks that i f someone i s his friend, then h e can send this per­
son to Vagan 'skoe Cemetery for cigarettes."
Il 'ja Zdanevich once told Volodja how much he liked him,
and Volodja told him how much he liked him, and then
Volodja said to him: "Give me twenty roubles; I need them
today." Zdanevich said: "Is this really what friendship consists
of?" Volodja: "If not that, then what?"
At the time in these circles one didn't gossip. Majakovskij
never gossiped, neither about himself or about others. In gen­
eral he didn't converse. He would joke or read poems. He
would talk about certain literary topics or about publishers. He
didn't like conversation. He was a rather silent person. Osja
was too. He would speak about topics that interested him,
scholarly or professional ones.
One knew very little about one another's personal lives.
When I think about how we lived in Pushkino . . . . Personal
life was rather candid, but at the time it was not the topic of
the day. At the dacha we rented there was an old run-down
garden. We found some sort of wickets, not even in a sufficient
number, and would play croquet not far from the fence. Lili
was in a state of near undress. Someone stood by the fence and
stared at her, and she shouted: "What, haven't you ever seen a
naked woman before?"
Majakovskij was proud of the fact that he had never writ­
ten scabrous poems, with the exception of certain couplets.
96 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
Volodja liked to speak of himself as a futurist. He was quite
touched, in the first place, that I had so many memories con­
nected with Futurism, and, in the second place, that I didn't
relate to it as if it were "past."
Two examples. Once I was telling him about the futurist
evenings I had attended, mentioned some of the jokes that
were made, and so on, when Lili came into the room; this was
in Pushkino. Lili related to it all somewhat ironically. But
Volodja said: "No, it's touching."
Later, in 1922 or 1923, in the corridor of the Berlin hotel,
Majakovskij turned to me and asked: "And what are you
now-a Comfut [Communist Futurist]?"229 I said: "No, simply
a futurist." He burst out laughing; he was pleased by what I'd
said. He never renounced Futurism and never became a real­
ist. When one would speak with him about realism, he would
cite his lines: "We are also realists, but not at grass . . . . "230
Majakovskij had a phenomenal memory, which, however, did
get worse with the years.231 At the beginning he could recite
whatever one liked without a scrap of paper, for example
150, 000,000. And he remembered an incredible number of
other poets' poems, although he often garbled them when he
read them aloud. In particular, he had memorized Blok, whom
he valued.
Once Lili said: "I don't have Blok, but sometime I'd like to
have a look at his poems." Then Maj akovskij went to Blok and
told him: "We'd like to read your poems." Later he told me: "I
talked with Blok, he received me well, and gave me his poems
with a dedication. I brought the book to Lili. We started to
read them and, well, what shall I say: it's as if the rhymes were
M EM O I R S / 9 7
bad and the lines weren't s o good, but they did make an
impression. "232
Majakovskij didn't like children, because he saw them as a
continuation of present-day byt. It's interesting in relation to
whom this appeared. He was sitting with me in Prague. The
one-year-old Kostj a Bogatyrev ran into the room, and
Majakovskij said: "Take him away!"233 He hated stories of his
childhood, of his early years. When his sister came to visit in
Pushkino and started talking about his youth, he would go
into a rage.234
But he loved dogs. This is apparent from the last part of
About That and from a series of other poems, but it was partic­
ulalry apparent in life. He played joyfully and tenderly with his
dog Shchenik, and once he said to me: "Shchen is an animal. I
like animals. Shchen is like people, but he can't talk. That's
pleasant."235
Once Majakovskij said to me that Russians lacked a genuine
sense of humor. The Ukrainians had a real sense of humor; a
truly rare sense of humor could be found in Gogol', with his
Ukrainian and first-rate sense of humor. And if one were to
take Russian writers, it was those who were connected with
the Ukraine in one way or another who were humorists.
Whether it was Averchenko or Burljuk, or whether it was
Chexov, who was from Rostov, Ukrainian features would
appear all the time. But among the Russians it wasn't humor,
but satire, for example Saltykov-Shchedrin, and that was
something completely different. But he, Majakovskij, in his
9 8 / MY F UT U R I S T Y E A R S
own words, had a Ukrainian sense of humor, and he would
recall that his grandfather was from the steppes, and so on. He
would say that he didn't have a Russian sense of humor, that
Russian humor was darker and more gloomy.
·
.
.
Majakovskij had a portrait of a woman which was done in a
rather neo-impressionist manner. Someone asked him why it
remained unfinished, to which Majakovskij responded: "Well,
there was no time-we started kissing."
In 1918 or 1919 Majakovskij and I were walking along the
street in Moscow, when suddenly he asked me: "Listen, can I
ask you something that may strike you as strange?" I said: "Ask
away."-"You're walking along the street alone and suddenly
you notice that you're thinking of something incredibly stupid,
silly, and meaningless, and that you're thinking about it in a
concentrated way. Does that ever happen to you?"-"Oh yes, it
happens all the time."-"Thank God, I thought it happened
only to me." This is very characteristic for Majakovskij's psyche.
·
.
.
When I once said to Majakovskij that "this is good, but worse
than Majakovskij," he said that was impossible: "If I knew that
I was going down, it would be the end."236
·
.
.
M EMOIRS / 99
Brik's copy of Pushkin's works was a broken set of Wolff's edi­
tion, which had the pages falling out, since when he worked on
it, he would tear out the pages. I recall how I was drinking tea
one morning with Volodja, and he said: "You know how they
say at the butcher's shop: I got a good chunk of meat today­
'Poltava.'" Majakovskij loved Pushkin very much.
In Flinsberg, in the summer of 1923, Majakovskij read me
About That, which I had read but had not listened to. At the
time he was gambling a lot, and in particular, had won a lot of
money at cards from some sort of rich emigre who had man­
aged to bring a collosal amount of platinum out of Siberia.
Majakovskij told me several times, in various contexts, that
nothing made him more indignant, angry and full of hatred as
anti-semitism.
Once, in 1917, I was at the Briks' in Petrograd. Lili said: "Do
you read philosophy?" I said yes, of course. "Well, here's
Kierkegaard; have you read him?" "No," I said, "I haven't."
"Listen, do read him, I have by chance one of his books in
German. I'm reading it and translating it for Volodja. It's a
remarkable thing!"237
It was forbidden, under threat of capital punishment, to possess
weapons without a special permit. And I had a Spanish walk­
ing stick that had a dagger inside. It was easily recognizeable,
1 0 0 / MY F UT U R I S T Y E A R S
and it certainly wasn't worth dying over. But party members
had the right to carry weapons, so I brought it to Brik, who
said: "I'll keep it until the fall of Soviet power." There was still
no sort of cow-towing to the party at the time.
.
.
.
[When Maj akovskij was writing About That] Nadja, the for­
mer cook of my parents who remained living in the apartment
and loved him very much, would bring him food. She made
exceptional pirozhki and was always ready to feed him. When
she learned that he had kille d himself, she rushed into the
room; she told me this herself, when I saw her in Moscow in
1 956. Someone shouted: "Don't go in there! There are GPU
men there!"-'Who will stop me," she replied, "Vladimir
Vladimirovich is dying!" She ran in and saw, as she told me,
"he's lying, all terrible, and is roaring like a lion." I thought it
was a folkloric invention. But, as a matter of fact, in a volume
of reminiscences about Majakovskij, [Lavinskaja] relates that a
photograph had been taken that depicts him in his death
throes.238 Later, when I asked Lili about it, she said: "Yes, of
course, I even have a copy of the photograph."
r
PA RT T W O
LET T E R S
LETTERS
/ 103
1 . T O A . E . KRU C H ENYX
[Moscow, end ofJan.-beginning of Feb., 1914]
I am granting your request in full, Aleksej Eliseevich, and am
sending you a poem "in words" of a sort,l written three weeks
ago. 2 In it the word is not "selfsome,"3 but has perished from an
explosion of the heart in a striving for laconism and arhythmi­
cality. All the words in it are of masculine gender (as you
requested). My language is not selfsome, for the selfsome word
presupposes a certain stasis on the part of the author, which is,
incidentally, unrealizable (elementary truths). Please publish
the poem under the name Aljagrov with the following title: "To
the Futurist prugvach Aleksej Kruchenyx." Prugva-bukva4 is
the clever neologism of the mentally-ill Platon Lukashevich
(from Radin's Futurism and Madness).5 There are many inter­
esting quotations there. By the way, you are well acquainted
with the verses of madmen and endlessly correct in what you
say about them. If possible, please print [the poem sent] in
prose lines without misprints, especially in the punctuation.
Incidentally, please write me as to when our collection will
appear, etc.6 At the same time send my remarks and, most
importantly, a copy of Roari1'; g ParnassusJ By the way, the
newspapers, magazines, store windows are flooded with articles
on Futurism, some of which have pretensions to seriousness.
The MusagetesH have taken to Futurism-in a few days
1 0 4 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
Stepun9 is devoting half a lecture to it. Vjacheslav Ivanov deliv­
ered a lecture, supposedly on Ciurlionis, but actually on the
Futurians. 10 I didn't go, but here's the approximate content of
part of it: the most sympathetic of youths, irrational tramps,
prodigal sons who, after abandoning the paternal home,
remained solitary on a tall mountain top, rejecting harmony.
We shouldn't poke fun at them, but erect a monument to their
madly bold feat; nevertheless, let us raise a hymn to divine har­
mony, etc., etc. No one is a prophet in his own land, but they
won't find themselves a fatherland or a refuge anywhere; they
are the sole true Russian anarchists. . . .
You asked me where I happened to come across poems com­
posed of vowels. The magical formulae of the gnostics are
interesting models of such.
Remember, you said that poetry is any sequence of letters in
direct or inverted order, and called this a demonic or or "under­
ground" point of view?
You know, poetry up to now was a stained-glass window
(Glasbilder), and like the sun's rays passing through the panes,
romantic demonism imparted picturesqueness to it.
But here's victory over the sun and the f-ray (from your own
works).l 1 The glass is blown up, from the fragments-in other
words, pieces of ice (this is from Andersen's fairytale)12-we
create designs for the sake ofliberation. From demonism, from
null, we create any convention whatsoever, and in its intensity,
its force, is the pledge of aristocratism in poetry (here I'm at my
peak). But you laugh and say: a fine dream, etc. It's not a dream,
but the breath of which Martynov speaks,13 the joy of creation
of which you write, the ability to color that Marinetti points
out. And as to the human point of view, I spit on itl Marinetti,
by the way, craves a meeting with you Futurians 14 and a debate,
even if through the medium of a translator.1s Smash him and
LETTERS / 1 0 5
his junk and trash to bits - you're so good at it! And it's most
important. Incidentally, I very, very much ask you to answer all
the above, it's very important to me: no one's gone as far as you
and me, 16 how can we lose sight of one another? If you flinch,
if you don't answer, all I can do is repeat your own words: oh,
damned old reflex!
In Moscow no one knows of the existence of your new
books. I pointed this out to the clerk at Obrazovanie,17 asked
him to put them in the window. He answers: "Thank God no
one knows!" What's one to do? The above phrases are relative:
don't forget that I'm using words. What's Xlebnikov up to?
Give him my best.
I wish you the very azure (thus, they say, 1. Severjanin18 clos­
es his letters). Please answer as soon as you can.
Roman Ja.
Address:
Lubjanskij Thruway
Staxeev's House
Apt. 10
P.S. If possible, publish [the poem] in the collection Onanism,
but without a title. 19
1 0 6 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
2. T O A . E . K RU C H E N YX
[Moscow, after August 1, 1914]
Thank you for Belyj;l you, of course, are right, but what is one
to do-the square and the newspapers stink of Germans and
vulgarians, and I was infected for a moment. But then, think
back-can't one catch cold even from Dostoevskij's under­
ground?
However, it's a question of something else. Did my letter
really irritate you so that you didn't want to answer my other
questions? I still ask you to answer. It is not a matter of Belyj or
of philosophy, I repeat.
If you're thinking of publishing another children's book or
something of the sort,2 then here's a couplet by a nine-year-old:
"TeptiI' brentiI ' kosu dral
Merin kuricu ukraL"
"The warmer pulled the jingler's
braid
The gelding stole the chicken."
Other verses and drawings have also come my way. The most
interesting are two compositions of a litde boy "in all lan­
guages,"3 quite transrational scribblings.
Don't be angry and write.
Roman Ja.
LETTERS / 1 0 7
3.
T O M . V . M ATJU S H I N
[Moscow, mid-January 1915]
I gave the pictures to Malevich and made his acquaintance, as
well as that of Morgunov (at the former's place).!
It seems that they're working a lot, but I didn't get to see
their things.
I took The Little Heavenly Camels to the office of Russkie
Vedomosti.2 I'll send you the photos of Bajdin's pictures later;
there's been a delay. 3
Now, as to Xlebnikov: his prediction actually came true. On
the 20th, the Germans sank the Formidable.4 I refrain from
commenting further.
For some reason I didn't succeed in Petrograd in relating to
you fully a certain thought: it seems to me that we're not with
Don �ixote, but with the peasants and hooligans beating
him; for he's a romantic, genuflecting, praising the old. Our
towering illusion is whether or not it's a knight we're battling.
How's Kruchenyx? For some reason he's not answering my
letters, and I've got to write him on an extremely urgent mat­
ter. So please convey this to him.
I don't know whether Malevich managed to write you about
this, but we're wondering whether it isn't an extremely oppor­
tune time to publish a collection, even if in a minimal number
of copies.
1 0 8 / MY F U TU R I ST Y E A R S
It would be a gibe at the gravediggers of the new. It would
concentrate, for example, the main works of the present, that is,
"first-quality goods" (as the Moscovite shopkeepers say) of
Futurism, ones achieving a maximum of tension.
Being of substantial size, the collection could include: 1)
works and 2) articles on music, poetry, painting and so on
(blows and substantiations).
If such a collection is impossible, one could to a certain
extent replace it with a collection of current verses. Mter the
war, one would think, they will be surpassed, and will thus
receed into the background. As a result, if there isn't a collection,
there will be a certain void. If this idea strikes you favorably,
please let me know, and I'll draft more detailed considerations
in that regard.
From the latest news here: Goncharova is doing decorations
for the Kamernyj Theater, S Severjanin during a poetry evening
discarded the word "Reichstag" from his verses and changed
"H auptman" to "Huysmans. "6
I await a letter from you.
Greetings to Ekaterina Genrixovna7 and Ol'ga Konstan­
tinovna. 8
Roman Jaljagrov
LETTERS I 1 0 9
4.
To E .]u. KAGAN
[Prague, mid-September 1920]
Dear Elena Jul' evna,
I just received your letter. On September 12th I received from
Elsa a short letter from London, which travelled for almost two
weeks, where, among other things, Elsa says that she will write
from Paris, when she gets from me a confirmation that I am
still in Prague. I was in depair, since in such a case I will get a
genuine letter from her no early than in a month's time, so I
immediately telegraphed you: I ask you to convey to Elsa that
I am waiting impatiently for the promised letter. The telegram
was hopelessly distorted. I was given your telegraphic reply to
read, but they refused to leave it with me, since they continued
to doubt that it was to me, and apparently sent it back to you.
The address bewildered me, and I took the word "written" as an
answer, that is, I decided that you wrote Elsa in Paris. Why did
I telegraph you, instead of telegraphing Elsa directly in Paris? I
was afraid that Elsa's husband would look askance at such a
telegram from a man with whom he is unacquainted; moreover,
before my departure [from Moscow] Lili warned me severely
not to forget that Elsa had ma�ried "a Frenchman."!
I have absolutely no news from Lili, as well as from our
native country in general, due to the laziness of my friends. I
send letters there, but it is a very long path; you should better
1 1 0 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
write to Osja's and my friend Grigorij Vinokur in Revel', at
the Hotel Petersburg. 2 He will forward your letter with plea­
sure, and you'll get an answer. In recent days I've managed to
exchange letters with many old acquaintances who have
emmigrated abroad, in particular with Izja Kan.3 But nothing
overjoyed me as much as the few lines from Elsa. In your let­
ter-when you write about Elsa, I sensed a note of anxiety, of
dissatisfaction. You know, Elena Jul'evna, how dear you all are
to me. And so I await Elsa's letter with even greater impa­
tience.
Roma.
LETTERS / 1 1 1
5.
T O E L SA TRIO LET
[Prague] Sept. 17 [1920]
Dear Elechka,
As soon as I saw the edge of the envelope in the half-darkened
corridor, I instantly recognized your handwriting. I became so
happy. When I wrote the first letter to Elena JuI'evna from
Reval, I was full of energy, in good form, was thinking of the
past incidentally, by the by. But now for a hundred and one rea­
sons I'm going through a period of decline (I still permit myself
to hope that it's not final), and perhaps for the first time in my
life I've begun to think in terms of the past. It ends with our
acquaintance, and I absolutely don't remember whatever came
before-probably I was playing with a rattle. And sudddenly, at
the peak of my decline-a few lines from you (I'm in a state),
that is, there's such a whirlwind of various thoughts, that I'm
still somewhat crazed. You pulled me out of my childhood by
the ears, Elsa; I wept, as happens, but you kept on pulling. And
I am obliged to you for ever so much. It was you who taught
me when we parted: "Roma's weak-it's a weak excuse," and I
became strong. But at the moment these hundred and one rea­
sons c'estplusfort que moi. But �ll of this is momentary. Your let­
ter took almost two weeks to reach me-an inconceivably long
time, and since you were waiting for a confirmation that I was
in Prague, I telegraphed Elena JuI 'evna. 1
1 1 2 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
For four days I've been thinking from morning to night that
I had to answer you, but I didn't know where to begin. As you
see, I still don't know, and am writing the wrong thing. Really,
each of us has lived through not one but ten lives in the last two
years. In the last few years I, for example, was a counterrevolu­
tionary, a scholar (and not the worst), the scholarly secretary of
Brik, the head of the Division of Arts, a deserter, a gambler, an
irreplaceable specialist in the heating establishment, a writer, a
humorist, a reporter, a diplomat, in every sort of romantic
emploi, and so on and so forth.2 I assure you I was indeed a
roman d'aventures and nothing else. And so it was with practi­
cally each of us. But when we read in Elena Jul'evna's brief
exposition about your travels from Moscow to Tahiti, everyone
said that, in a word, it was a fairytale. 3 But, really, can one write
about everything, can one inquire about everything in a letter?
I want to talk with you. This summer, when I was living at the
dacha with the Briks, I had a woman visitor. She planned to
stay for a while, but was there only one day and night and went
back to Moscow. Lili asked me: "Why so soon?" I answered:
"But, Lili, one can't just kiss for two whole days!"-"But you
could have talked."-"I can talk only with you and Elsa."
And this is not just a phrase, Elsa. Only now do I under­
stand what an exceptionally clever person you are. Last winter
I read your diary. It is such a beautiful thing (especially the
childhood part) that it seems to me I've rarely been so capti­
vated by a book. By the way, I packed up your diaries and let­
ters with my manuscripts. They're now being preserved in a
scientific establishment.5 But that particular small envelope of
letters I burned, in bed with typhus, near death.6 Elsa, we real­
ly must speak, and I simply want to see you. If there were the
slightest possibility, I would immediately set off for Paris. But
if you can drop by in Prague or at least in Karlsbad O f in some
L E T T E RS
/ 113
such place, I will be happy beyond belief I have so many sto­
ries of all sorts, gossip, and even a book ofVolodja's with a ded­
ication to you.? At least write. Greetings to Elena Jui'evna, my
respect for whom is even greeter after having learned that she
flew in an airplane.
Your Roma.
17 Sept.
Il4 /
MY F U T U R I S T Y E A RS
6 . TO ELSA TRIOLET
[Prague,] 1 1 [October 1920]
Dear Elja,
How difficult it is to correspond with you. You change not
only in the interval between two letters, but even in the extent
of a single letter,-you seem to tire, to subside toward the end.
And, really, I can't get everything into a letter, and these few
lines make sense only when you gleen how the other is taking
them in, but you are changing so much that there is no chance
of gleening anything, and so I can't write about myself. It's
another matter if it's in words, and when you see someone. But
meanwhile it's so good that you have written so much about
yourself; otherwise it would be ever harder for us to strike up
a conversation. Because these years seem almost not to have
taken place, and despite myself, I see you as a holy sinner, and
both Klimentovskij Lane and the cut of your sleeves are the
same. By the way, you and Lili are so boldly candid that it
seems there's no one more open, but actually both you and she
conceal much more. Apropos, do you know that Lili and I
intended to "get married," in order to bring her here? By
chance it didn't happen. !
L E T T E RS
/ 115
S o I really should tell you about my last few years, even if
in a few strokes, since I'm convinced that I am still for you, as
in your diary, "a poor naive, credulous child."2 This is often
repeated.
But, as I already wrote above, I can't tell you anything
without seeing you, and turn instead directly to today's con­
cerns, although this may be somewhat unexpected for you. On
April 15th I made up my mind definitively to break with
everything that had tied me down in recent times: in a word,
fa vita nuova and various bright dreams. When I received your
[first] letter [from Paris] , I should have quit my job the next
day and burnt, if you like, my last bridge. Your letter, written
hastily, led me to think that you were suddenly irrevocably
alone, but I didn't have the tuning-fork to perceive for sure
whether this was just momentary. Therefore I carelessly
tossed my plans aside and waited for your following letter.
Once I got it, I fulfilled my original plan and am now a free
bird. If you can do it for me, taking into account your circle of
acquaintances, get me a visa for Paris and find out whether or
not some sort of job is possible for me there, simply in order
to have the possibility of existing. If this were at all possible,
I would migrate there in the next three months with enor­
mous satisfaction. If you can, Elechka, quickly find Larionov
and Goncharova-they're working there-and remind them
of me (Jakobson-Aljagrov), mainly as a friend of Bajdin­
Vejnshtejn3 and Kruchenyx, and propose to them to publish
Volodja's new poem (its content is the Soviet Revolution),
150,000,000, which had a defeaning success when he read it
publically. It is still unpublished. He gave me the manuscript;
I have it here.4 Perhaps I c;uld earn something [getting it
published] , or perhaps some articles about whatever and
wherever might he appropriate. By the way, perhaps this is all
1 1 6 I MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
nonsense. Write me frankly. At the moment I'm completely
tired out with these "decisive steps." Today's my birthday.
Your Roman
1 1 November
Answer soon.
LETTERS / 1 1 7
7 . T O E L S A TRIO LET
[Prague,] 14 [November (?) 1920]
Dear Elechka,
I wish I could see you terribly. But how? You apparently don't
have the money for a trip here; I have neither the money after
my recent situation at work, nor a visa. The former is easier to
get, but even the latter, one would think, is not all that difficult,
if! were to remind several old acquaintances about me, but they
have become repulsive to me, and in general I am happy to no
longer touch either politics or politicians. You ask what I'm
doing in Prague. I don't know if you know it or not, but in
September I was strongly attacked here for my participation in
the [Soviet] Red Cross Mission. 1 The newspapers were crying
out about "the boa constrictor, grasping in its tenacious
embrace our local professors" (this is me), and so on; the pro­
fessors vascillated whether I was a bandit or a scholar or an
unlawful mongrel; in the cabaret they were singing little songs
about me-all of this was not very witty. The situation was
complex, but it seems to me that my fate is to tightrope-walk
in inconceivable situations. As a result I left work (without tears
or cursing), and entered univyrsity scholarship and so on. The
money I have, what with the extremely modest life I'm leading,
will last until April, and then we'll see. Probably I'll visit Osja. 2
If you have little money and there are no perspectives for the
1 1 8 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
immediate future, I think it would be better for you here-it's
cheaper to live here, and you could perhaps find work, know­
ing, as you do, four languages. By the way, this perspective is
only "in the absence of fish." Why couldn't you have answered
me definitively in the beginning of October? I would have
done differently. But, of course, it's stupid to recall that now.
Every word in your letter, dear Elechka, wails unbearably
about crushed self-esteem. But it only seems so to you: it was­
n't so earlier. You once wrote so clearly about the same thing,
but then you had Romik as a scapegoat. Don't think that I'm
being ironical: this is in the order of things. As a peasant once
said to me: "Well, the Tsar attacks the minister, the minister
attacks the merchant, the merchant attacks the peasant, but
what is the peasant to do?-He attacks his potato, as its mas­
ter." I know I would love it if for five minutes I would com­
pletely doubt that I can make people take my mind seriously.
Everything, except for the word "fool" thrown from the soul, is
irrelevant to me. Likewise, what Lili needs is the confidence
that she can attract new people, and Volodja - that only he can
write completely brilliant poems; I just don't know what is it
you need? Or are you Lili's sister? Or, what's even worse [illeg­
ible] . But enough lyrics. I kiss your hand.
Your Roma
The 14th
LETTERS
/ 1 19
8. T O E L S A T R I O L E T
[Prague, 19 November (?) 1920]
My Beloved Elechka,
Today is the 19th, and I had already written you on the 14th, but
didn't send it off until now; I was hoping the whole time to
think up something in order for you to get settled here. If you
had only answered me simply and clearly right away. Now I
propose to you the following: no matter what happens, sell
Volodja's manuscript to Larionov: it's a remarkable thing in
every respect. You know his War and the World;1 this is "ten times
better." It's still unpublished! It is highly praised in Volodja's
readings in Russia. 2 Secondly, I have Volodja's collected works,
including everything up to 1919 (your copy, with a dedication))
The young poets here, who got acquainted with his poetry
through me, were most fascinated. Further, there is now appear­
ing in the West all sorts of theoretical garbage about the new
art, whereas I have a militant, good work ''A Chapter from the
New Poetics" (Approaches to Xlebnikov)-in three printer's
signatures. I read it in the form of a lecture several times in
Moscow and Petersburg.4 It made a huge noise in literary cir­
cles. The youth greeted it nois�ly, the old folks of all sorts (for
example Sakulin,s Chukovskij, Lunacharskij, and so on) hissed,
but couldn't help acknowledging its "great talent" and consid­
ered it necessary to p ublish it. I have a copy of it here; it's still
1 2 0 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
unpublished. Moreover, I also have the philological-futuristic
collection Poetics with Shklovskij's brilliant articles. 6 In a word,
try to sell all or part of this. Moreover, I hope in the immedi­
ate future to get a series of the latest reproductions of the
Russian left artists, and then I can combine them into a book
about the latest Russian art and artistic politics, and so on. All
the money you get for all this, if the scheme succeeds, are ear­
marked for your living expenses here. I personally have enough
money to last me until Apri1. Try, Elechka, it will be such a joy
if you come. Keep in mind that if you get even 1000 francs,
that's enough for three months or so here, maybe more, if one
lives humbly, though without deprivations. Having so persis­
tently called you [to come to Prague] , I am very afraid of tak­
ing on the responsibility before you and not being able in the
end of being sure whether this is a way out, but in my last let­
ter I wrote about the "absence of fish," and in your letter, which
I received today, there are hints of just that. Elechka, you are
so impossibly dear to me, you know. It's hard to explain, but
today I heard your voice all day long: "Let's go, let's go, my
dear ange1." As regards growing old, it's nonsence; I would
have answered you, but it would be too much like a quotation
from Hamsun's Victoria. Today I had a Frenchman over; how
terribly I've gotten out of the habit of conversing fluently in
French. You ask what I'm doing. In January of 1917, as I was
walking down the Pjatnickaja, I swore: "If I meet another,
beautiful, young one, I will not squander my heart," 8 and on
April 20, 1920, I swore the same and that by April 20, 192 1 I
would write my dissertation, stoj co stoj, as the Czechs say. And
on August 1 1 th I again swore, so as you see, the "squandered
sums" are large. I'm joking, but truly this was not in jest. I
gathered the remnants of my money and my soul, became as
stingy as a Jew, I sit and am preparing a "scholarly" hook hy the
LET T E R S I 1 2 1
10th of April. I'm alone a lot now; to recruit some acquain­
tances would, I think, be easy for me here even now, malgre tout,
but would be for naught. In recent days I got settled comfort­
ably, moved into a splendid, warm room (150), hung on the
walls amusing Czech popular prints, which instantly made it
cheerful, and sit and work. If you were here, it would be even
better. Barbusse's Le feu was translated into Russian a while
ago;9 send me L'Atlantide.10 In general books got into Russia
almost by miracle-very few. If there's something interesting
about the new art, send it too. But better send yourself This is
always more interesting. Sent my greetings to Elena Jul'evna. It
is terribly unexpected that my friends (including Osja, Vitja,
Aleksej)ll don't write me at all, and they used to love me a lot.
Well, I am distant.
Your Roma.
Pessimist, send me a picture of the "Parisian you"; I append a
picture of the "Prague me" for your amusement.
1 2 2 / MY FUT U R I S T Y E A R S
9. TO ELSA TRIO LET
[Prague,] 30 November [ 1920]
Dear Elsa,
I await your reply to my previous letters with great impatience.
In the first place, I don't like it in general when there's no
answer from you for a long time-there's always a sort of anx­
iety and other stupidities. In the second place, I badly need to
know 1) whether you are coming and when, 2) whether my
manuscript can be sold.1 The point is that, if you don't plan to
come next month, then I shall perhaps visit my relatives in
Berlin for the holidays, but I terribly want to see you at last,
even if it is in January.2 As far as the manuscript is concerned,
I have a possibility of publishing it here, true, without payment,
but I'm already so sick and tired of the fact that it has been a
manuscript so long (a sort of old maid). Therefore, if it's impos­
sible in Paris, I'll do it here. There's little news. Nobody writes
me. I'm working a lot. I await your letters and you.
Rom.
30 November
LET T E R S / 1 2 3
10. TO ELSA TRIOLET
[Prague,] 12 December [ 1920]
E lja,
For some reason you don't come, you're waiting for something,
what-I don't know, but I really need to talk with you-about
you, about me, but if not, just to talk,-you are very close and
needed. For some reason I've been thinking of Levochka.1 We
became good friends. We always went home together after vis­
iting the Briks. At night, on foot, through the entire city. He
didn't like everything that was going on there at the time. "But
I don't want to visit others; after Lili they're so boring." Forgive
me for interfering in your domestic affairs, but I don't like it
and am not expecting anything good. The most cursed thing is
that I'm a homeless tramp at the moment, and there's no cursed
money in view. This deprives of its proper weight the following
phrase, which I repeat today in sound mind and full memory : I
await you, as I did four years minus a week ago. What I then
proposed remains in force in all its details, only I'm older and
have learned to respect full fre� dom above all.2 Perhaps you will
grin, curl your lip, be surprised at this "proposition," decree:
"Nonsense." But it's today, and I want to make sure that neither
tomorrow nor the day after could the thought enter E lechka's
1 24 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
mind: I have nowhere to go. So it has been said. Now on to
immediate matters.
I've having my book printed already here under the title The
Newest Russian Poetry. A First Sketch. Part of the copies will
belong to me, and the most sensible thing, it goes without say­
ing, would be to sell them in Paris. Please, dear, find out for
me: how much could one ask for a humble little book of three
printer's signatures (around 50 pages) and how many could
one count on selling. This is terribly important for me. It's
coming out in January. If Elena Jul'evna could clarify these
same questions for me in London without too much loss of
time and energy, I would be endlessly grateful to her. Further,
here's how matters stand with Volodja's things. If the poem is
to be sold, the rights should be understood to be for one edi­
tion with an agreed-upon number of copies.3 The Moscovites
should be ashamed at not writing me; I'm terribly angry. In
general, I'm working peacefully, my head is clear, yesterday
while writing I discovered to my amazement that it was
already seven in the morning, and I thought it was still
evening. E lechka, if only you could come, even just for a day,
even if just to greet the New Year (do you recall the striking of
the clock?), or even just for Tat'jana's Day. I planned to write
a great deal in answer to your last letter (about your uncle and
so on), but I am unable to speak seriously at length in a letter,
it's as drawn-out as a melodrama; it's a different matter in
words, which can be nuanced with humor. Where's the humor
in a letter? It's like a comic mask and gets congealed.
But don't enter a monastery ; better come to me. Your max­
imum program would be fulfilled, that is, you write about a
nook, where no OIlC l'<H1ld hother you or suspect you, and
finally, books, paints---thc piano's a bit more difficult. Oh if
you only kncw how allWY it makes me when stupid money
LET T E R S / 1 25
can play such an intrusive and base role in life. I kiss your
hand.
Roman.
12 December.
I'm not going to Berlin, but I'll probably visit Osja fairly soon.4
1 2 6 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
1 1 . TO ELSA TRIOLET
[Prague,] 19 December [ 1920]
Elsa,
Yesterday I received your letter and lost heart. So, we shall not
see each other before my trip (to Osja), which apparently will
be soon.
"Reasons of a financial nature." Is it really impossible to
scrape together something from the sale of Volodja's books,
manuscripts and if but a hundred copies of my book* (in the
worst case at 1 112 francs each, if more is impossible)? Is a visit
of three days, in other words only a round-trip ticket, really so
unbearably expensive? Forgive me, but something here is not
quite right.
You're your old self-you tantalize one with candy, but this
time we didn't have a bet. By the way, neither in this letter or in
following ones will I ask any more. A free person has their own
free will. Or are you not free?
From your last letters it is quite unclear to me how things are
going with you in Paris. You write something about your
* There are not three signatures in it, as I wrote you, but five, i.e. around 80
pages.
LETTERS
/ 127
money "not being [your] own," and so on. To paraphrase
Volodja:
If such is Western culture,
Then I spit on every West.1
If someone speaks or writes me about money being decisive in
important questions, of its interfering shamefully in life, of
being dependent on money, it literally makes me twitch all over.
After I got your letter yesterday, I was so angry that I went out
and squandered a good half of what I had. Of course, that's not
very smart, and right now I am dry. What sort of question can
there be of earmarking some money from the supposed earn­
ings for Lili and Volodja? Of course, earmark what's necessary.
You are perplexed that they have separated. Lili got tired of
Volodja a long time ago; he had turned into the sort of furious
philistine husband who feeds his wife-to fatten her up.** Of
course, this was hardly to Lili's taste. It ended in endless quar­
rels: Lili was ready to carp at every trifle (last summer).2 Volodja
and I became good friends, and as a result she also "nailed" me
(to use thieves' jargon). Our relations were spoiled. By the way,
we didn't actually quarrel, but became reconciled, and warmly
so, only in that year. By the way, I think that at the moment I'm
in disfavor for many reasons. Lili's way is inevitably rain after
good weather. What else does she write about herself, Osja and
Volodja? By the fall of 1919, they had ceased living together,
Volodja moved in next door to me,3 and in the winter they
broke up. Volodja was somewhat down, but later became a bit
more like he was before Lili, a bit of an apache-it seems even
now he's making rows .
Osja joked that Volodja in his family life was akin to Pushkin. This is
characteristic not so Illllch r()r Volodja, as for Osja.7
••
128
/ MY FUTURIST YEARS
He goes to the Briks', as in the old Petersburg days, almost
every day. It's impossible to describe everything, but in short, it
of course turns out wrong. By the way, you know, Stanja4 start­
ed frequenting the Briks and became one of their own. At first
Lili was against him, but later was quite the opposite. He and
I became somewhat friendly; he's quite intelligent, but not at
all the sort you describe him to be. Lili (between us) has aged
a lot (and not only externally). This torments her terribly, but
now, that is, more accurately, when I left, she had already
found herself a new style-romans discrets that do not destroy
the "order." At one time she was so against Volodja that she
couldn't listen to anything about art, couldn't speak about
artists without a "bestial" malice, and phantasized about "peo­
ple of affairs." She can attrack men to the extreme even now.
She went to Petrograd in the winter with a certain man whose
head she had turned. There was only one berth for the two of
them [on the train]; they lay head to foot, and he "passionate­
ly attacked her legs." In Petrograd he ran after her, crazed. On
the way back, without telling her, he took a whole half of a
compartment. She went into it and was terribly displeased.
Suddenly Boris Kushner5 (surely you remember him? By the
way he and I also became fast friends) stuck his head in the
door, and said: "Can I join you? Otherwise, I'll have to sleep in
the corridor." Lili was glad. She sends the other one to the
upper berth, and lies down with Kushner. It's dark. She throws
offher shoes, and Kushner "kisses her feet." Really, it's a novel­
la. But enough gossip; as it is Lili calls me a gossip. If it's not
too much trouble, please find out for me whether one can get
the "Evangile de Reims" in Leger's edition and for how much.6
If it's not more expensive than 50 francs, buy it and send it,
and I'll transfer the money to you. And also be so kind as to
send me De Saussure, Cours de Linguistique (it 's inexpensive).
LET T E R S / 1 2 9
As regards perfume for Lili: i n spring I bought her Origan de
Coty in Moscow for 8,000 rubles, i.e. cheaper than in Prague.
But now perhaps they no longer have it in Moscow.
Roman
If I vanish from your Parisian horizon as suddenly as I
appeared, remember me kindly.
Happy New Year!
If for Paris it would be better to have the book on good
paper, write me, and I'll have extra copies printed on good
paper. In general, as regards the book, answer as soon as possi­
ble, my dear. Forgive me for rushing you.
I received a letter from M-lle Dache;8 she turns out to be in
Berlin. If you want, I'll let you know the address.
My new address: Praha, Vinohrady Nerudova ulice, N 7, byt.
1 30 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
12. TO ELSA TRIOLET
[Prague, January 7, 1921]
Beloved E lechka,
Was it 13 or 12 years ago on this day-December 25th accord­
ing to the Old Style-that you and I danced a Hungarian
dance together in the Literary-Artistic Circle?1 When one is
alone, Christmas involuntarily becomes a day of remem­
brances; one senses calendrical numbers. Exactly four years
ago on this very day I wrote a "desperate" letter to you in
Petrograd. And there's still another recollection-one of many
not connected with Christmas: you told me-"You'll never
leave me." And just a quarter of an hour ago a song-bird of a
young lady told me: "We're close, but it's as if you were some­
one else's."- "Yes, someone else's." A few days ago I received
at the same time a letter from someone else's wife, where you
write that my letter comforted you. I received another from
someone else's bride. She writes: "Your wonderful letter so
touched my heart that I wanted to kiss you. Thank you, dear
friend. Your lines give me so much joy." But I have no joy.
Many2 are ready to give me joy, but for me the entire world is
divided into two unequal halves: the lesser-other people, who
can give me no joy, and you, whose every minute should be a
festival, and I would light a candle for this festival, but instead
of this you have a whimpering life. E lechka, it's not just words:
LETTE R S / 1 3 1
there's nothing I wouldn't do so that there wouldn't be that
whimpering life. My head works, but I can't just work, when
I'm alone and it's the holidays; as you write, one wants to go on
a binge. Well, I went on a binge and spent everything and am
dry; my one hope is to sell a sufficient number of copies of my
book being printed. Help me with this. If you don't have and
didn't have money, why didn't you telegraph me to send some
when I insisted on it? We could have met. When I leave - to
Osja or to Bulgaria to Trubetzkoy, from whom I received an
interesting letter,3 or somewhere else-I don't know, but I do
know that I'll soon take off. You write-"don't leave." To receive
letters from you, to write you, my devilishly clever one, is a
great holiday, but I can't just sit here for a holiday. If there's
something else, if I can become necessary for you, if there's
some way I can help you even a little, write me definitively, I'll
cancel my plans and will act accordingly.
The very letters of your message cry out, as it were, with
their hook-like shape: go to hell, all of you-the letters, people,
my own self E lechka, why do you take pain and grow it and
grow it?4 Where is your exceptional liveliness of the old days?
I kiss your hand
Your Roma.
1 3 2 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
13. TO ELSA TRIOLET
[Prague,] 25 January 1921
Dear E lechka,
I'm writing in a hurry. Why are you silent? Lili and Osja are
well (information from January 5th).
I'm sending my first-born;1 write me your impression. Take
the other copy to Povolockip with the request that he answer as
quickly as possible whether I should send it, and how many
copies at what price (3-4 francs would be good). Ifhe wants, let
him take it for London as well, or you, my dear, contact
London yourself. Forgive me for troubling you; perhaps at the
moment you are not up to me or to all of this, but I'm sitting
without a farthing, and just now I need money-first of all, to
be able to do as I please. Telegraph the numer of copies, if pos­
sible: Praha Vinohrady, Nerudova 7. Jakobson.
Roman
25.1.21
LET T E R S / 1 3 3
14. TO ELSA TRIOLET
[Prague,] 24 January [1923]
Dear E lika,
I'm reading your letter and am reJolcmg, smce the entire
E lechka-intelligent, close and sensitive-is in this letter. I am
rejoicing, despite the dismissive words and tough phrases ("you
can't bear a different emplot' . . about the usefulness of door­
mats for wiping one's feet, and so on). Even in these tough
phrases I recognize the Elsa of Moscow, who would step on
one's feet. I do not believe these words, I do not believe them,
just as you, E lechka, don't believe, don't believe, don't believe
that we could one day become unnecessary for one another.
The devil himself tied us up together-that's from your letter
of long ago. And I'll never be able to convince neither you, nor
myself, nor Sonja,! that I love her as I love you. When I recall
our meeting,2 I feel absurdly strange: I became so stupid from
the happy fact that I recognized my former Elsa-so stupid
that I was unable neither to ask (and there were at hand whole
carriages full of questions most necessary in and of themselves),
nor to tell (and there were at hand a whole line of special trains
full of pressing tales), nor to ki�s. But now, when I write you,
again it's not a question of questions and tales, but of twitching
lips and the stubborn, stubborn thought: I want Elsa. At the
moment I haven' t a single other thought and know of no other
.
1 34 / MY F U T U RIST YEARS
love. According to you, this is an eternal impossibility promis­
ing paradise, but E lik, I don't care what it is, but simply, if you
want to understand me now, to know genuinely what it is I
want, then imagine me saying in my most insistent Romanish­
extra-Romanish intonation one word: E lechka. E lja, you
spend time very day with Vitja,3 he's probably taught you what
an oxymoron is; well, I don't want an oxymoron, I don't want
you to be the very closest person to me at a distance of eight
hours of travel. E lja, we shall see one another. I am rereading
your letter, and it is as if I hear you jingling the keys locking
up, as if you had come out on the stairs to see me off and are
still smiling affably, but I already know that in a minute the
door will slam shut and I'll be left like a bast mat in front of it.
E lik, don't be proud with me; it's just the same as sleeping in a
corsette. So perhaps the door has slammed anyway,-in that
case, read what follows:
When I spent days with you in Moscow, I forgot the
address of the university. Thus my philological school was
Pjatnickaja, Golikovskij Lane.4 I was polished by you, Elsa.
But I do not want to be a promising scholar, I do not want to
write "talented sketches," I do not want to feel ashamed when
I am praised. And now I am ashamed, since I am doing to the
point of disguise something other than I should, and when,
E lechka, you reproached me for this in your letters, you were
intelligent and right. I am simply unable to throw out of my
life trifles and trivialities for the sake of the main thing, and I
live by trifles. You were unable to convey to me your stubbor­
ness in attaining a goal. And I live terribly somehow from day
to day, and in the evenings, if I'm not kissing, I howl like a
wolf. This is again a quotation-from your diary.s I am writ­
ing all this in a teribly incoherent way; I am unable to write
"sentimental memoirs."6 But if you understood that with the
LET T E R S / 1 35
Briks I am not on my own and useless, then perhaps you will
understand this too.
Sonja persistently wants to leave (don't tell anyone about
this). The things in our room are no longer in place.
If there's the slightest possibility I will soon be in Berlin.
The thought that you could again vanish leads me to despair.
That is also a quotation from your letters. You will never lose
your charm for me, even in the worst case-even if you become
intimate with Vitja.
Your Roman
Write at the address: PrahaZ iZkova uL Vila Tereza
Zastupitelstvi RSFSR
24 January
I wrote you the 24th, the same day you wrote your letter. I did­
n't send you the letter, since only today, having received your
letter with a delay, did I learn your address, and I didn't want to
write you at Vitja's. I wanted to come to Berlin this Friday, but
it was absolutely impossible. Beloved E lechka, come to Prague;
Vitja's been sent a visa, so come together with him. Neither
sweets nor livers nor anything else are needed-what is neces­
sary is that E lja come-I almost wrote return-to Prague. E lik,
everything will be fine, just come! If you do not come, both I
and you (without fail you) will regret it for life.
Roma
Elsa, come! Without "compassion," there is no "home" anyway.
1 36 / MY FUTURI S T YEARS
15. TO ELSA TRIOLET
[Prague,] 11 March [1923]
E lechka, in Moscow you showed me some letters to you,­
whose, I forget,-and said: here's a person who is able to write
beautiful letters. You said this as a reproach, and I envied to
tears this person, who was able to write and whom you of
course liked as a result. Later I myself learned to write beauti­
ful letters and "to be pleasant in society" (your other demand).
But now I hate more than anything in the world such beautiful
letters and such pleasantness. I would like just one thing-to
write you in a completely unliterary way a simply unpublishable
letter, a letter that it would be impossible to submit for copying
and carry the copy to a publisher. I don't want to "compress
life," as certain acquaintances say, and to write letters to you for
a publisher, as these acquaintances do. For me you are not a lit­
erary motif, nor a poetic heroine.1
When M-lle Dache brought me to you fifteen years ago, I
said afterwards: "We spent a very pleasant time, and she speaks
in such a literary way.-1 said to Elsa (I forget about what) that
is was as 'tall as a lanky person,' and she replied-'as tall as the
Suxarev Tower.'" E lechka, understand, my child, I am sick and
tired to the point of nausea when people speak in quotations,
comparisons, in a literary way.
LET T E R S / 1 3 7
This is why I haven't written you i n such a long time. I want
you to understand that my heart and liver really hurt, and not
like a person who has taken on the pose of someone whose liver
is ill and starts speaking in quotes. I terribly wish I could save
you from literary liver!
E lechka my dear, I am sick of everything. I'm sick of litera­
tures and of literature. I'm sick of the fact that Vitja wants to
"stage" an incident between me and you, and take for himself
the reporter's ticket to the drama, if he doesn't succeed in
becoming an actor in a secondary role. Perhaps I'm sinking my
teeth into him for no reason, but at the moment it takes me an
enormous effort not to sink my teeth into anybody and every­
body and then not to howl, cursing, that they have offended
me. E lja, I've grown so tired, and there's such a chaos in my
head, that if I once let myself start howling, I'd be unable to
stop. It is terribly stupid that my thinking apparatus is working
well, but to no purpose and without zeal. I think up reasons to
become offended and start bull-fights.
E lja, in terms of what you said about it "not being fate,"
that's stupid.
E lja, write.
I'm strong, and once I've gotten a rest, I'll again do good
works, even much better than before, I'll be a happy beast, even
more so than before. And I'm glad for you that this whole ill­
ness was a literary myth. Be well. There's a terrible lot of fabri­
cation-both the illness and Vitja. There is no sort of bouillon,
only Elsa and Roma.
Your question: Sonja?
Sonja has her own, home-bo\lnd grammar. When her
teacher in the first grade asked her to write on the board an
example of a noun of the masculine gender, she wrote: "Kitty!"
Usually people of the so-called nonliterary type prove upon
1 38 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
closer examination to be people of bad literature. But Sonja
doesn't have a bad literary tradition. She has her own home­
bound literature, grammar, and arithmetic. She doesn't count
beyond one. E lja, let us see one another
Roman
ll.III
LETTERS
/ I39
16. TO ELSA TRIOLET
[Prague,] 27 March [1923]
E lja,
A letter to you has already laid locked up in a drawer for many
days. I didn't send it and haven't written in general because of a
certain torpidity.
From Kushner's pious speeches about you I tried to read you
cleansed of legend. Perhaps in my letter I was unjust to Vitja,
but I don't like his latest numbers ("Laugh, clown" to the tune
of a Jazz band). Kushner is mad at me for not being a roman­
tic. I would have written you "don't go to Paris," if I had even
the slightest right to do so. I dreamed of you the last few nights
with a terrifYing verissimilitude, "to the elbow's sharpness, to
the veins of your legs."l In your speech and gestures there were
many details that I had long forgotten in reality. Once I
dreamed of you together with Vitja, I hit him, and he shattered,
having turned out to be made of plaster. And his plaster head
fell off with great verisimilitude. The next morning, when I
awoke, Sonja told me that I had never caressed her as I did that
night, in dream. In such instances I feel myself to be a rotten
scoundrel before her. And now, when I write you, there is the
sensation of larceny and deception. Kushner says that I am a
business-like person.
27.III
Roma
140 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
17. To ELSA TRIOLET
[Prague,] 26 Dec. [1923]
E lechka, dearest sister,
recently became acquainted with a certain Czech lady, who
reminds me terribly of you in appearance and manners. Just as
I wanted to tell her about this, she said to me: "You are ridicu­
lously similar to someone whom I loved very much." Now it's
terribly amusing to read the Czech edition of Elsa.
E lechka dear, don't be angry that I haven't written. I am
tremendously busy at work, making money, and in March will
quit my job (this is strictly confidential; don't tell the Briks). I
am so sick and tired of attending to someone else's affairs that
I want to cry in the evenings.
The news from Moscow is not very cheerful. Vitja plays var­
ious games and draws placards. I am not in correspondence with
him.1 Recently a lot of Berliners have been spending time in
Prague-Gor'kij, Xodasevich, E renburg, Sharik,2 I went out
drinking with Xodasevich; he's quite intelligent and pleasant in
company.3 He told by in passing (without any questions or tales
from my side) about his misunderstanding with Vitja. At
Gor'kij's place in Saarow he said: "Vitja has the taste of a Red
Army soldier, and his women should be like Red Army soldiers.
Meeting Elsa was for him a meeting with a lady of fashion, with
whom a Red Army man falls in love by contrast." Everything
else, according to him, is an invention.
I
LET T E R S I 1 4 1
For a long time after I came back from Berlin I dreamed
that I was meeting with you, and suddenly for different reasons
we became separated. This turned into a whole cycle of adven­
turous dreams from which I awoke with a headache. The last
time in Berlin, after the evening ended in a regular "perfect
paradox," j'itais tout a fait abruti and didn't understand a thing
that we said in our parting meetings. I only remember distinct­
ly how you put on your stockings. I would very much like to see
you again, only without a regular burial service, as the last
times, and without parting kisses completely like carrying a
coffin out of the church. I've been living with Sonja en bons
camarades; she's in Moscow now, and I'm very bored.
Don't be angry, E lechka, neither at this letter, nor at me; at
the moment I am completely engulfed by the effort not to get
bogged down in a whimpering life. Write in more detail about
yourself. I won't take so long to answer. I am terribly delighted
by your letters.
By the way, I'm thinking whether I shouldn't move to Paris
by the middle of 1924. I'm somewhat sick of Prague, I don't like
Berlin, and at the moment Moscow is quite tedious.
Send the manuscript as soon as you can to my home
address: Praha VII. Belskeho tf. 16.
Your Roma
Happy New Year, Happy new plans!
PART THREE
ESSAYS
E S SAY S I 145
FUTURISM
It was in the twentieth century that painting first consistently
broke off with the tendencies of naive realism. In the last cen­
tury the picture was obliged to convey perception; the artist
was a slave to routine, and he consciously ignored both every­
day and scientific experience. As if what we know about an
object were one thing, and the direct content of a presentation
of objects were an entirely different thing-and the two com­
pletely unrelated. As if we knew an object only from one side,
from one point of view, as if, upon seeing a forehead, we for­
get that the nape of the neck exists, as if the neck were the dark
side of the moon, unknown and unseen. Similar to the way in
which in old novels the events are presented to us only so far
as they are known to the hero. One can find attempts at dou­
bling points of view on an object even in the old painting,
motivated by the reflection of a landscape or of a body in the
water or in a mirror. Compare likewise the device in Old
Russian painting of depicting a martyr in one and the same
picture twice or three times in contiguous stages of an action
in the process of unfolding. But it was Cubism that first can­
onized multiple points of view. Deformation was realized in
earlier pictorial art on an insignificant scale: for example,
hyperbole was tolerated, or the deformation was motivated by
146 / MY F U TURIST YEARS
an application that was humorous (caricature), ornamental
(teratology), or finally by the data of nature itself (chiaroscuro).
Freed from motivational motifs by the acts of Cezanne, defor­
mation was canonized by Cubism.
The Impressionists, applying the experience of science, had
decomposed color into its component parts. Color ceased to be
subjugated to the sensation of the nature depicted. There
appeared blotches of color, even chromatic combinations, which
copied nothing, which were not imposed upon the picture from
without. The creative mastery of color naturally led to a realiza­
tion of the following law: any increase in form is accompanied
by a change in color, and any change in color generates new
forms (a formulation of Gleizes and Metzinger))
In science this law was first advanced, it seems, by Stumpf,
one of the pioneers of the new psychology, who spoke about the
correlation between color and colored spatial form: quality shares
in changes of extension. When extension is changed, quality is
also transformed. Qyality and extension are by nature insepara­
ble and cannot be imagined independently of one another. This
obligatory connection may be opposed to the empirical connect­
edness of two parts lacking such an obligatory character, e.g., a
head and torso. Such parts can be imagined separately.2
The set (ustanovka)3 toward nature created for painting an
obligatory connection precisely of such parts which are in
essence disconnected, whereas the mutual dependence of form
and color was not recognized. On the contrary, a set toward
pictorial expression resulted in the creative realization of the
necessity of the latter connection, where the object is freely
interpenetrated by other forms (so-called Divisionism). Line
and surface attract the artist's attention; he cannot exclusively
copy the boundaries of nature. The Cubist consciously cuts
nature up with surfaces, introduces arbitrary lines.
E S SAYS / 147
The emancipation of painting from elementary illusionism
entails an intensive elaboration of various areas of pictorial
expression. The correlations of volumes, constructive asymme­
try, chromatic contrast, and texture enter the foreground of the
artist's consciousness.
The results of this realization are the following: (1) the can­
onization of a series of devices, which thus also allows one to
speak of Cubism as a school; (2) the laying bare of the device.
Thus the realized texture no longer seeks any sort of justifica­
tion for itself; it becomes autonomous, demands for itself new
methods of formulation, new material. Pieces of paper begin to
be pasted on the picture, sand is thrown on it. Finally, card­
board, wood, tin, and so on, are used.
Futurism brings with it practically no new pictorial devices;
instead, it widely utilizes Cubist methods. It is not a new school
of painting, but rather a new aesthetics. The very approach to
the picture, to painting, to art, changes. Futurism offers pic­
ture-slogans, pictorial demonstrations. It has no fixed, crystal­
lized canons. Futurism is the antipode of classicism.
Without a set, to use a psychological term, without a style,
to use a term from art criticism, there can be no presentation of
an object. For the nineteenth century, what is characteristic is a
striving to see things as they were seen in the past, as it is cus­
tomary to see: to see like Raphael, like Botticelli. The present
was projected into the past, and the past dictated the future, all
according to the famous formula: ''Another day has gone by,
praise the Lord. Lord grant tomorrow be the same."4
What art, if not representational art, could serve so success­
fully the basic tendency of fixing the instant of movement, of
breaking down a movement into a series of separate static ele­
ments? But static perception is a fiction. As a matter of fact,
"everything is moving, everything is quickly being transformed.
148 I MY F UT U R I S T YEARS
A profile never remains motionless before one's eyes; it contin­
uously appears and disappears. As a result of the stability of the
image on the retina, objects multiply, are deformed, follow one
another, like hurried vibrations in the space one is running
through. So it is that running horses have not four legs but
twenty, and their movements are triangular" (from a manifesto
of Futurist artists).5
Static, one-sided, isolated perception-a pictorial anachro­
nism-is something in the nature of the classical muses, gods,
and lyres. But we are no longer shooting out of a harquebus or
traveling in a heavy carriage. The new art has put an end to
static forms; it has even put an end to the last fetish of the sta­
tic: beauty. In painting nothing is absolute. What was true for
the artists of yesterday is today a lie, as one Futurist manifesto
puts it.
The overcoming of statics, the discarding of the absolute, is
the main thrust of modern times, the order of the day. A neg­
ative philosophy and tanks, scientific experiment and deputies
of Soviets, the principle of relativity and the Futurist "Down
With!"6 are destroying the garden hedges of the old culture.
The unity of the fronts of attack is astonishing.
''At the present time we are again experiencing a period in
which the old scientific edifice is crumbling, but the crumbling
is so complete that it is unprecedented in the history of science.
But even that is not all. Among the truths being destroyed are
ones which were never even uttered by anyone, which were
never emphasized, so self-apparent did they seem, so uncon­
sciously were they used and posited as the basis for every sort
of reasoning." A particularly characteristic feature of the new
doctrine is the unprecedented paradoxical nature of many of
even its simplest propositions: they clearly contradict what is
usually called "common sense."7
E S SAYS / 1 4 9
The last sign of substance is vanishing from the physical
world. "How do we picture time to ourselves? As something
flowing continuously and homogeneously, with an eternal,
identical speed everywhere. One and the same time fl ows in the
entire world; it is quite obvious that there cannot be two times
which flow in different parts of the universe at different speeds.
Closely connected with this are our conceptions of the simul­
taneity of two events, of 'before' and of 'after,' for these three
most elementary notions are accessible even to an infant; they
have an identical sense, by whomever or wherever they are
used. The concept of time conceals for us something absolute,
something completely unrelative. But the new doctrine rejects
the absolute character of time, and therefore the existence of
'world' time as well. Every identical self-moving system has its
own time; the speed of timeflow is not identical in each such
system." Does absolute peace of mind exist, even if only in the
form of an abstract concept which has no real existence in
nature? From the principle of relativity it follows that absolute
peace of mind does not exist.
"Time gets involved in all spatial dimensions. We car-not
define the geometrical form of a body which is in motion in
relation to us. We define always its kinetic form. Thus our spa­
tial dimensions occur in reality not in a three-dimensional, but
in a four-dimensional variety."
"These pictures in the field of philosophical thought should
produce a revolution greater than Copernicus' displacement of
the earth from the center of the universe . . . Does not the
power of the natural sciences make itself felt in the transition
from an undisputed experimental fact-the impossibility of
determining the absolute motion of the earth-to questions of
the psyche? The contemporary philosopher cries out in embar­
rassment: There is nothing but deceit on that side of the truth."
150 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
"The newly discovered offers a sufficient quantity of images
for the construction of the world, but they break its former
architecture, so familiar to us, and can be fit only within the
boundaries of a new style, one which far out-distances in its
free lines the borders not only of the old external world, but
also of the basic forms of our thinking."
(Direct quotations in this and the preceding four paragraphs
are from O.D. Xvol'son, The Principle of Relativity, and N.A.
Umov, The Characteristic Features of Contemporary Natural­
Scientific Thought.)
The basic tendencies of collectivist thought: the destruction
of abstract fetishism, the destruction of the remnants of statics
(Bogdanov, The Sciences of Social Consciousness).8 And so the
main lines of the moment are obvious in all domains of culture.
If Cubism, following Cezanne's behests, constructed a pic­
ture by starting from the simplest volumes-the cube, cone,
sphere-offering its own sort of primitiveness in painting, then
the Futurists in search of kinetic forms introduced into the pic­
ture the curved cone, the curved cylinder, collisions of cones
with sharp, curved ellipsoids, and so on, in a word, destroying
the mountings of volumes (see Carra's manifesto).9
Perceptions, in multiplying, become mechanized;' objects,
not being perceived, are taken on faith. Painting battles against
the automatization of perception; it signals the object. But,
having become antiquated, artistic forms are also perceived on
faith. Cubism and Futurism widely use the device of impeded
perception, which corresponds in poetry to the step-ladder
construction discovered by contemporary theoreticians.
In the fact that even the most discerning eye is able only
with difficulty to make sense of objects that have been totally
tr� nsubstantiated, there is a particular charm. A picture that
gives itself with such reserve expects precisely that it will be
E S S AY S / 1 5 1
questioned again and again. Let us take Leonardo da Vinci's
words as a defense of Cubism in this respect:
We know well that our sight, by rapid observations, discovers
in one point an infinity of forms: nevertheless it only under­
stands one thing at a time. Suppose that you, reader, were to
see the whole of this page at a glance, and concluded instant­
ly that it is full of various letters; you would not at the same
moment know what letters they are, nor what they would
mean. You would have to go from one word to another and
from line to line if you would wish to know these letters, just
as you would have to climb step by step to reach the top of a
building, or else never reach the top. (Cited by Gleizes and
Metzinger.)10
A particular instance of impeded recognition in painting,
i.e., a construction of the type-this is a lion, not a dog--is like
a riddle which deliberately leads us to a false solution; compare
the so-called "false recognition" of classical poetics or the neg­
ative parallelism of the Slavic epic.11 Aristotle: "For men delight
in seeing likenesses because in contemplating them it happens
that they are learning and reasoning out what each thing is, e.g.
that this man [in the painting] is that [sort of man]; for if by
fortune one has not previously seen what is imitated, the like­
ness will not produce pleasure as an imitation, but because of its
execution, or surface coloring, or some other cause of this
sort."12 In other words, it was already clear to Aristotle that
alongside a type of painting that signals the perception of
nature, there exists a type of painting that signals our direct
chromatic and spatial perception (it does not matter whether
the object is unknown or whether it has simply dropped out of
the picture) .
When a critic looking at such pictures is at a loss and asks:
"What in the world does this mean, I don't understand"-and
152 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
what precisely does he want to understand?-he is like the
metaphysician of the fable: they want to pull him out of the
hole in the ground he's in and all he can do is ask: "What sort
of thing is rope?"13 More briefly: for him, perception that is
valuable in and of itself does not exist. He prefers paper cur­
rency to gold: currency, with its conventionally assigned value,
seems to him more "literary."
E S S AY S / 153
THE TASKS OF ARTISTIC PROPAGANDA
Is it possible to conceIve of a form of artistic propaganda
which is outside of any party, objective, and all-inclusive?
Is it possible simultaneously to inculcate in the masses all of
the aesthetic systems that exist in the given moment?
If an organ of artistic propaganda wants to adopt the role of
being an artistic Meriliz,l then one can doubtlessly do so.
In such a case, one's basic slogan would be: whatever you
want.
One would have to have in stock primarily a popular line of
goods, selected by the customers' demands.
One would have to offer, above all, the sort of goods that
are readily available, that are quantitatively rich. But such
goods are stale. A quick sale requires creating goods which are
sold as quickly and as easily as possible and in a maximum
quantity. These are, clearly, all sorts of cliches.
From the above one can only deduce that customer demand
defines the value of an artistic trend, that the value of an artis­
tic exhibition be measured by its rate of attendance, that only
a plebiscite can clarifY the value of one or another artistic
work, as was practised in part during the period of the flower­
ing of aesthetic liberalism under the so-called "Itinerant"
school of artists.
154 I MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
But one does not choose artistic forms the same way that
one chooses a pair of gloves in a fashionable store.
People forget the fact that the life of art entails a change in
the methods of formulation, that for every form there comes a
moment when it "is transformed from a progressive form of
productional forces into their chains" (Marx).2
A new artistic form is a deformation of the old, a protest
against it. A peaceful coexistence in time of two artistic forms
is as inconceivable as the coexistence of two geometrical bod­
ies in space. The old art, destroyed by the attack of the new,
leaves behind various so-called "cultural survivals." They differ
from a live social fact by the absence of any tendency other
than a conservative one.
In so far as the tasks of genuine revolutionary artistic pro­
paganda are to revolutionize cultural, particularly aesthetic,
habits, it should, with all the means at its disposal, destroy and
nullify all these cultural survivals. In other words, the elimina­
tion of artistic statics, the battle with epigonism, is the task of
artistic enlightenment. The apologia for eclecticism, for artis­
tic compromise, signifies a revolutionary debility, a creative
impotence. An epidemic of such compromise coincides with
moments of social decadence. This was the case at the begin­
ning of the war, when even certain left artists wailed about "a
united aesthetic Russia."3
Those who project the muses into life, who cry out for tol­
erance in art, are akin to the adherents of "pure democracy,"
who, in Lenin's words, take a formal similarity for a factual
one.4
At the moment, when the revolution in art is sharper, per­
haps, than it has even been, when the old aesthetics, which
pervaded all aspects of life, is rotting away in every nook and
cranny, interferring with a new, live aesthetics, it is not the task
E S SAY S / 155
of an organization promoting artistic enlightenment to pour a
conciliatory balm on the issue, but to reveal the growing con­
flicts-not to neutralize, but to sharpen the struggle of artistic
trends, for in that struggle lies the life and development of art.
156 / MY FUTURI S T YEARS
NEW ART IN THE WEST
(A LETTER FROM REVAL)
The topic of the day in German art is Expressionism. The
newspapers blare out the word Expressionism, using this term
as a generalization for every novelty in art; studies of
Expressionism are coming out in bundles, as are expressionistic
poems, exhibitions, debates, humor, expressionistic theatrical
productions. Expressionism as an artistic current is enveloping
Czechoslovakia, Latvia, Finland.
In artistic publications, and even in the columns of the
Vossische Zeitung, there are philological quarrels about the ori­
gin of the very term "Expressionism."
Leaving aside the attempts of the journal Der Sturm to trace
this term in its contemporary meaning to Thomas Aquinas, let
me cite Th. Daubler's book In The Struggle for Contemporary
Art: "The word 'expressionism' was first used, probably, by
Matisse, but de Vauxcelles, the critic from Gil BIas, first put it
into circulation socially. It is possible that its origin is even
more far removed. They say that Paul Cassirer tossed it out
once in an oral polemic. To be more precise, it was at a meet­
ing of the jury of the Berlin group 'Secession.' Someone asked,
it seems, in relation to a picture by Pechstein: 'What's this,
more impressionism?' He replied: 'No, it's expressionism.' Juli
Elias, in the journal Kunstblatt, ascertains that the term was
E S SAY S / 157
first applied by the artist Julien-August Herve for a cycle of his
paintings as early as 1901 ."1
The history of the rise of Expressionism as an artistic trend
is drawn in German studies in the following features. (I trans­
late the German characterization, lyrically verbose and bom­
bastic, rich with the fog of the German style moderne, into the
terse language of Russian revolutionary aesthetics.)
Every artistic trend is a particular ideographic system. When
speaking of pictorial expression, the representatives of a certain
trend have in mind only the expressive system given in that
trend, and view past art through the prism of that system.
Naturalism, which arose as a reaction to a certain ideographic
system, little by little reduced to zero its own pictorial-ideo­
graphic set. Impressionism, the logical deduction of naturalism,
was conceived by its creators as an approximation to nature
(Naturniihe), while its viewers, who were brought up on the
previous ideographic system, regarded it as a contradiction of
nature (naturwidrig). The more the artist destroys the estab­
lished ideogram in a revolutionary way, the more distinctly his
violation is sensed as a rejection of verisimilitude, as an "unnat­
ural" art. And to the degree to which this "unnaturalness"
becomes canonized, to the extent to which it is deprived of a
naturalistic motivation, the more we go from Impressionism to
Expressionism. One should seek the latter's closest relatives at
the periphery of the past art, and precisely-as Landsberger
indicates in his book Impressionism and Expressionism2-in the
simplifying tendency of the poster, in contemporary caricature,
which widely utilizes its old right to violate nature and teaches
us to laugh at what is later done in all seriousness. Impres­
sionism, with its set toward heightened color, had already laid
bare the brush stroke. From there it is but one step to van
Gogh, who proclaimed: "Instead of trying to reproduce exactly
158 / MY F UTURIST YEARS
what I see before my eyes, I use color more arbitrarily, in order
to express myself forcibly." This leads to color hyperbole ("I
exaggerate the fairness of the hair," says van Gogh, "I even get
to orange tones, chromes and pale citron-yellow"),3 to a color
epithet ("Such is van Dongen, when he paints green stockings,
red cheeks, blue eyes"-Daubler), to color metonymy ("The
artist Jawlensky has red cheeks that are no longer cheeks, but
the color red"-Daubler). From this it is but a step to the lay­
ing-bare of color, to the emancipation of color from the object.
As an example of such emancipation Daubler cites the painting
of Kandinskij and Klee. The path from decorative graphics to
the obtrusive contours of expressionistic painting is condi­
tioned by the same fact. There are quite a few survivals of nat­
uralism in the theory of Expressionism, which are explicitly
revealed in Landsberger's book: "Herman Bahr proceeds from
an identification of the history of painting with the history of
vision, supposing that a new vision is the obligatory precondi­
tion for new representational devices. To the simple visual per­
ception which formed the basis of Impressionism, contempo­
raneity juxtaposes afresh an internal contemplation, a vision of
the spirit, and similarly to the way in which this contemplation
presents us with unprecedental images, art, which is based on
them, should be unlike reality. The understanding of art as a
means of conveying vision is a survival of Impression; it pre­
supposes an artist who realizes his impressions, whether exter­
nal or internal, in an indifferent way. What is ignored here is
the artist's struggle with the object of perception."4
In other words, the problem of aesthetic formulation is alien
to the epigones of Impressionism. This is found in the works of
Da� bler and Wirchner,5 as well as-to a significant degree-in
the theories of French Cubism and Italian Futurism, those
peculiar realizations of Expressionism. Thus Futurism appears
E S S AY S / 159
at times to be a "paroxysm of Impressionism." Landsberger is
correct when he says that interpretations of the Cubo-Futurist
deformation of the object are borrowed to a great degree from
the language of Naturalism: "They say that a quickly-moving
object decomposes itself for the eye, that we view an object at
different moments or from different points of view. Actually,
the decisive factor is the demand for a deformation of reality. In
precisely such a way the theoretician of abstract art Kandinskij
declares: 'What is beautiful is that which answers an internal
necessity of the soul.' He walks the slippery path of psycholo­
gism, and if he were to be consistent he would have to admit
that, in that case, one would have to relate the category of the
beautiful first and foremost to one's own handwriting."
The emotional interpretation of color is extremely individ­
ual, as Landsberger notes. Thus, Hebbel notes in his diary:6
When you see a white mass, you freeze; when you see white
images, you get frightened. The snow is white, ghosts appear to
be white, and so on, but otherwise white can be the color of
innocence, or joy, or even sorrow, depending on what objective
associations are evoked. Abstract art, contrary to its theoreti­
cians, signifies a total withering away of pictorial semantics, in
other words, easel painting loses its raison d'etre.
The names of the Expressionist artists, announced in the
German studies about the new art, include: Albert Bloch,
Lionel Feininger (a Cubist), Otto Mueller, E. Nolde, Georg
Grosz, Kandinskij, Franz Marc, Pechstein, Schmidt-Roduff,
Kurt Badt, Ernst Fritsch, Artur Grunenberg, Wilhem
Kohlhoff, Bruno Krauskopf, Erik Maria Kunzig, Ludwig
Meidner, Martel Schwichtenberg, Eric Waske, and others; the
sculptors Archipenko, Wilhem Lehmbruck, Ernst Barlach; the
architect Hans Poelzig.
The ccntcr of German Expressionism is Berlin.
160 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
A characteristic feature of German books about Expres­
,
sionism is the attempt to explain new artistic phenomena soci­
ologically. Thus Daubler ascribes the reactionary trend in
French art of the beginning of the twentieth century, which
demanded a return to the classical tradition, to a certain polit­
ical milieu-royalists, Bonapartists, clerics. About Impres­
sionism the same writer says: " Vielleicht war er Demokrat, selten
aber Sozialist." Thus, finally, Landsberger, who in his interest­
ing book on Expressionism has broken away from the mod­
ernist interpretation of modern art in many respects, attempts
to illuminate Expressionism in a sociological way, but in this
case he is close to the dogmas of modern aesthetics. "We live,"
he writes, "or at least we lived before the revolution, in condi­
tions of ever growing rationalization and mechanization. Art
has become ever more important as an irrational form of being
free from any constraint. Surprise at the world becomes the
exclusive fate of the artist. A person is already deprived of the
possibility of expressing his individuality in the actual world, as
a result of which the cult of free creativity has been transferred
entirely into the realm of art. It is there that the hero of our
time flourishes; it is there that the creator's triumph over nature
is accomplished."
By the way, on political groupings. A characteristic page is
the Whites' attacks on modern art. An example is the article
by the venerable Repin in the columns of the Russian newspa­
per Time in Berlin (February 1 1th of this year), "Proletarian
Art." The entire article from beginning to end is shameless
cursing: "senseless slavish muscular contortions," "characterless
scribbles," "nonsense," "the vile rollicking of Bolsheviks," "hav­
in� gotten fattened up, that is, having eaten the neck of a bird
that strayed from the flock, having stuffed themselves on
sheep tails, they sit in the motherland and suck out of her the
E S S AY S / 16 1
internephritic juice, and, shielding themselves from intoxica­
tion by the imported wine of the bourgeosie, these birds of
prey go into a dance, embracing their fat wallets of false value­
lessness! What can be more revolting than when they shed a
tear of emotion over their satiation . . . . Ugh! What filth! Well,
what art could such hog-swines emit from their wombs" and
so on.7
The investigators of the new art touch in passing on ques­
tions of "artistic politics." If we are unconcerned, Daubler says,
whether private persons hang nasty pictures on the walls of
their apartments or display worthless marble wares, it is entire­
ly another matter with architecture. Here the government
needs to make a certain choice, to exert a certain pressure. But
in the realm of the arts the question of the government's artis­
tic politics is also pressing. Thus, in the Riga newspaper Today
there is an article by Simakov on ''Artistic Politics." The author
thinks that in a democratic government, "the sole healthy basis
for artistic development should be private philanthropy." But
he is immediately forced to admit that at the latest Latvian
artistic exhibitions, "almost the only purchaser was the Ministry
of Foreign Affairs." And if the government buys and encour­
ages art, then what does it mean to buy and encourage art? For
it's impossible to buy and encourage everything. And here a
practical misunderstanding arises: "a lot of young Expressionist
artists who made much noise received gratis as studios the vast
premises of the former Artistic School of Riga, which had been
requisitioned by the city's martial authorities. When the city's
former mayor stated that the school's accommodations were
needed by the city for more pressing concerns than the encour­
agement of beginners and the extremely questionable merit of
artists, he was subjected to accusations of obscurantism and a
lack of culture. "H
162 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
I have less information at my disposal on what is going on
in the artistic life of the Atlantic states. France is living out
Cubism, which has received wide public recognition. Both
Larionov, who is thriving despite the current gossip in Moscow,
and Goncharova are playing a major role in the artistic life of
France. Mter the war Futurism established itself solidly in Italy,
gained a wide popularity, "wurde zur Macht," as D1tubler says.
Of the Italian Futurist painters the most famous one is Carra.
But Italian Futurism has hardly evolved as an artistic trend in
the last few years and has instead acquired an ever greater pub­
licistic significance. Marinetti issued a book entitled La revolu­
tion futuriste, which is a fantastic medley of hyperchauvanism
and revolutionary maximalism, of naive nationalism and slo­
gans.9 Recently there has emerged an extremely leftist group of
Italian communist Futurists, whose aesthetic slogans are also of
the most radical type.iO In 1916-1917 Futurism penetrated
America and captivated progressive intellectual circles, students
and so on.
E S SAYS / 1 6 3
DADA
Dada means nothing.
Dada 3, 1918
Dilettantes, rise up against art!
Poster at Dada exhibition,
Beriin, june 1920
In these days of petty affairs and stable values, social thought is
subjugated to the laws of bell-ringing patriotism. Just as, for a
child, the world does not extend beyond the nursery, and every­
thing outside that realm is thought of by analogy, so the petty
bourgeois evaluates all cities in comparison to his native city.
Citizens of a somewhat higher order lay everything that relates,
if not to a different city, then to a foreign country, on the
Procrustean bed of the homely and dance according to the tune
of their native culture. One's own little world and all that is
"translatable" into one's own dialect versus the incomprehensi­
ble barbarians-such is the usual scheme. Is this not the reason
for the fact that sailors are revolutionary, that they lack that
very "stove," that hearth, that little house of their own, and are
everywhere equally chez soi? Limitation in time corresponds to
limitation in space; the past is normally depicted by a series of
metaphors whose material is the present. But at the moment,
despite the filet that Europe has been turned into a multiplicity
1 64 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
of isolated points by visas, currencies, cordons of all sorts, space
is being reduced in gigantic strides-by radio, the telephone,
aeroplanes. Even if the books and pictures do not get through
today, beleaguered as they are by chauvinism and the "hard cur­
rency" of state national borders, nevertheless the questions that
are being decided today somewhere in Versailles! are questions
of self-interest for the Silesian worker, and if the price of bread
rises, the hungry city-dweller begins to "feel" world politics.
The appeal to one's countrymen loses its conviction. Even the
humorists are crying that there is no longer an established order
of things (byt).2 Values are not in demand.
What corresponds in scientific thought to this sudden
"swing"? Replacing the science of the "thousand and first exam­
ple," inescapable in days when the formula "So it was, so it shall
be" ruled,3 when tomorrow put itself under the obligation of
resembling today, and when every respectable man had his own
chez soi, there suddenly appears the science of relativity. For yes­
terday's physicist, if not our earth, then at least our space and
our time were the only possible ones and imposed themselves
on all worlds; now they are proclaimed to be merely particular
instances. Not a single trace of the old physics has remained.
The old physicists have three arguments: "He's a Jew," "He's a
Bolshevik," "It contradicts 'common sense."'4
The great historian Spengler, in his outspoken book The
Decline ofthe West (1920),5 says that history never existed and is
not possible as a science, and above all that there was never a
sense of proportions. Thus the Mrican divides the world into
his village and "the rest"-and the moon seems smaller to him
than the cloud covering it. According to Spengler, when Kant
philosophizes about norms, he is sure of the actuality of his
propositions for people of all times and nations, but he does not
state this outright, since he and his readers take it for granted.
E S SAY S I 1 65
But in the meanwhile the norms he established are obligatory
only for Western modes of thought.
It is characteristic that ten years ago Velimir Xlebnikov
wrote: "Kant, thinking to establish the boundaries of human
reason, determined only the boundaries of the German mind.
The slight absent-mindedness of a scholar."6 Spengler com­
pares his stricdy relativistic system to Copernicus' discoveries.
It would be more correct to compare it to Einstein's; the
Copernican system corresponds rather to the transition from
the history of Christianity to the history of mankind.
Spengler's book has caused a good deal of noise in the press.
The Vossische Zeitung concluded: "Ah, relativism! Why say such
sad things?" There appeared a voluminous reproof that suc­
ceeded in finding a true antidote to Spengler's system. This
rebuke resounded from the church pulpit. This is no personal
whim-the power of the Vatican is growing; the pope has not
had so many nuncios for a long time. It is not without reason
that the French government, rejoicing that France has finally
disengaged itself from its revolutionary past, is in such a hurry
to stress its piousness.
In all domains of science there is the same total rout of the
old, the rejection of the local point of view, and new giddy per­
spectives. One's most elementary premises, which were unshake­
able not so long ago, now clearly reveal their provisional charac­
ter. Thus Buxarin, in his The Economics ofthe Transitional Period,
discloses the meaninglessness of the Marxist concepts of
"value," "goods," and so on, in application to our time, the fact
that they are connected to certain already crystallized forms, the
fact that they are particular instances.?
Relevant here too is the aesthetics of Futurism, which
refused to write beauty and art with capital letters. But Western
Futurism is two-faced. On the one hand, it was the first to
1 6 6 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
become aware of the tautological nature of the old formula­
"In the name of beauty we are destroying all laws"-from
which it follows that the history of every new current in com­
parison to its predecessor is a legalization of illegality; hence it
would seem that there can be no punitive sanctions on what is
possible in art, since instead of a decreed new beauty there is a
consciousness of the particularity, the episodic nature of each
artistic manifestation. It would seem that the scientific, histor­
ically minded Futurists, who rejected the past point-blank pre­
cisely because of their historicity, are the first who cannot cre­
ate a new canon. On the other hand, Western Futurism in all
of its variants endeavors to become an artistic movement (the
thousand and first). "Classics of Futurism" is an oxymoron if
you take as your starting point the original conception of
Futurism; nevertheless, it has come to "classics," or to a need for
them. "One of the innumerable isms," said the critics, and
found Futurism's Achilles' heel. The demand arose for a new
differentiation, "a manifestation parallel to the relativistic
philosophies of the current moment-a 'nonaxiom,'" as one of
the literary pioneers, Huelsenbeck, announced.8 "I'm against
systems; the most acceptable system is to have absolutely no
system at all," added another pioneer, the Romanian Tristan
Tzara.9 There follow battle cries repeating Marinetti: "Down
with all that is like a mummy and sits solidly!" Hence "anticul­
tural propaganda," "Bolshevism in art."lO "The gilding is crum­
bling off, off the French, like any other. If you tremble, gentle­
men, for the morals of your wives, for the tranquility of your
cooks and the faithfulness of your mistresses, for the solidity of
your rockingchairs and your nightpots, for the security of your
government, you are right. But what will you do about it? You
are , rotting, and the fire has already begun" (Ribemont­
Dessaignes).l1 "I smash," exclaims Tzara somewhat in the tone
E S SAY S / 1 6 7
of Leonid Andreev, "skull cases and the social organization: all
must be demoralized."12
There was a need to christen this "systemless" aesthetic
rebellion, "this Fronde of great international artistic currents,"
as Huelsenbeck put it.13 In 1916 "Dada" was named. The name,
along with the commentaries that followed, at once knocked
out of the hands of critics their main weapon-the accusation
of charlatanism and trickery. "Futurism sings of . . . " Marinetti
used to write-and then came columns of objects celebrated by
Futurism. The critic would pick up a Futurist almanac, leaf
through its pages, and conclude: "I don't see it." "Futurism con­
cludes," "Futurism bears with it," "Futurism conceals," wrote
the ideologists who had become infected with the exoterica of
Symbolism. "I don't see it! Ah, the frauds!" answered the critic.
"'Futurism is the art of the future,' they say," he would reflect,
"why, it's a lie!" "'Expressionism is expressive art'-they lie!"
But "Dada," what does "Dada" mean? "Dada means nothing,"
the Dadaists hastened to reply, running interference as it were.
"It doesn't smell of anything, it doesn't mean anything," says the
Dada artist Picabia, bending the old Armenian riddle.14 A
Dada manifesto invites the bourgeoisie to create myths about
the essence of Dada. "Dada-now there's a word that sets off
ideas; each bourgeois is a little playwright, inventing different
dialogues."15 The manifesto informs lovers of etymology that
certain blacks call the tail of a holy cow "dada"; in one part of
Italy "dada" means mother; in Russian "da" is an affirmation.
But "Dada" is connected neither with the one nor the other nor
the third. It is simply a meaningless little word thrown into cir­
culation in Europe, a little word with which one can juggle a
l'aise, thinking up meanings, adjoining suffixes, coining com­
plex words which create the illusion that they refer to objects:
dadasophcr, dadayama.
1 68 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
"The word dada expresses the internationality of the move­
ment," Huelsenbeck writes. The very question "What is Dada?"
is itselfundadaistic and sophomoric, he also notesP "What does
Dada want?"-"Dada doesn't want anything."18 "I am writing a
manifesto and I don't want anything . . . and I am on principle
against manifestoes, as I am also against principles," Tzara
declares.19
No matter what you accuse Dada of, you can't accuse it of
being dishonest, of concealment, of hedging its bets. Dada
honorably perceives the "limitedness of its existence in time"; it
relativizes itself historically, in its own words.20 Meanwhile, the
first result of establishing a scientific view of artistic expression,
that is, the laying bare of the device, is the cry: "The old art is
dead" or ''Art is dead," depending on the temperament of the
person doing the yelling. The first call was issued by the
Futurists, hence "vive Iefutur!' The second, not without some
stipulations, was issued by Dada-what business of theirs, of
artists, is the future?-"a bas Iefutur!' So the improviser from
Odoevskij's story, having received the gift of a clarity of vision
which laid everything bare, ends his life as a fool in a cap
scrawling transrational verses.21 The laying bare of the device is
sharp; it is precisely a laying bare; the already laid-bare device­
no longer in sharp confrontation in the long run-is vapid, it
lacks flavor. The initially laid-bare device is usually justified and
regulated by so-called constructive laws, but, for example, the
path from rhyme to assonance to a set toward any relationship
between sounds leads to the announcement that a laundry list
is a poetic work.22 Then letters in arbitrary order, randomly
struck on a typewriter, are considered verses; dabs on a canvas
made by a donkey's tail dipped in paint are considered a paint­
ing: With Dada's appeal, "Dilettantes, rise up against art," we
have gone from yesterday's cult of "made things" (say, refined
E S S AY S / 1 6 9
assonance) to the poetics of the first word let slip (a laundry
list). What is Dada by profession? To use an expression from
Moscow artistic jargon, the Dadaists are "painters of the word."
They have more declarations than poems and pictures. And
actually in their poems and pictures there is nothing new, even
if only in comparison to Italian and Russian Futurism. Tadin's
"Maschinenkunst,"23 universal poems made up of vowels,
round verses (simultaneism), the music of noise (bruitism),
primitivism-a sort of poetic Berlitz:
my mother told me to shoo off the hens
but I cannot chase away the hens. (Tzara)24
Finally, paroxysms of naive realism: "Dada has common sense
and in a chair sees a chair, in a plum-a plum."25
But the crux of the matter lies elsewhere, and the Dadaists
understand this. "Dada is not an artistic movement," they say.
"In Switzerland Dada is for abstract (nonobjective) art, in
Berlin-against." What is important is that, having finished
once and for all with the principle of the legendary coalition of
form and content, through a realization of the violence of artis­
tic form, the toning down of pictorial and poetic semantics,
through the color and texture as such of the nonobjective pic­
ture, through the fanatic word of transrational verses as such, we
come in Russia to the blue grass of the first celebrations of
October26 and in the West to the unambiguous Dadaist formu­
la: "Nous voulons nous voulons nous voulons pisser en couleurs
diverses. "27 Coloring as such! Only the canvas is removed, like an
act in a sideshow one has grown tired o£
Poetry and painting became for Dada one of the acts of the
sideshow. Let us be frank: poetry and painting occupy in our
consciousness an excessively high position only because of
1 70 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
tradition. "The English are so sure of the genius of Shakespeare
that they don't consider it necessary even to read him," as
Aubrey Beardsley puts it. We are prepared to respect the clas­
sics but for reading prefer literature written for train rides:
detective stories, novels about adultery, that whole area of
"belles-lettres" in which the word makes itself least heard.
Dostoevskij, if one reads him inattentively, quickly becomes a
cheap best seller, and it is hardly by chance that in the West
they prefer to see his works in the movies. If the theaters are
full, then it is more a matter of tradition than of interest on the
part of the public. The theater is dying; the movies are blos­
soming. The screen ceases bit by bit to be the equivalent of the
stage; it frees itself of the theatrical unities, of the theatrical
mise en scene. The aphorism of the Dadaist Mehring is timely:
"The popularity of an idea springs from the possibility of trans­
ferring onto film its anecdotal content."28 For variety's sake the
Western reader is willing to accept a peppering of self-valuable
words. The Parisian newspaper Le Siec!e states: "We need a lit­
erature which the mind can savor like a cocktail."29 During the
last decade, no one has brought to the artistic market so much
varied junk of all times and places as the very people who reject
the past. It should be understood that the Dadaists are also
eclectics, though theirs is not the museum-bound eclecticism of
respectful veneration, but a motley caft-chantant program (not
by chance was Dada born in a cabaret in Zurich). A little song
of the Maoris takes turns with a Parisian music-hall number, a
sentimental lyric-with the above-mentioned color effect. "I
like an old work for its novelty. Only contrast links us to the
past," Tzara explains.30
One should take into account the background against which
Dada is frolicking in order to understand certain of its mani­
festations. For example, the infantile anti-French attacks of the
E S SAYS / 1 7 1
French Dadaists and the anti-German attacks of the Germans
ten years ago might have sounded naive and purposeless. But
today, in the countries of the Entente there rages an almost
zoological nationalism, while in response to it in Germany
there grows the hypertrophied national pride of an oppressed
people. The Royal British Society contemplates refusing
Einstein a medal so as not to export gold to Germany,31 while
the French newspapers are outraged by the fact that Hamsun,
who according to rumor was a Germanophile during the war,
was given a Nobel Prize. The politically innocent Dada arous­
es terrible suspicion on the part of those same papers that it is
some sort of German machination, while those papers print
advertisements for "nationalistic double beds." Against this
background, the Dadaist Fronde is quite understandable. At
the present moment, when even scientific ties have been sev­
ered, Dada is one of the few truly international societies of the
bourgeois intelligentsia.
By the way, it is a unique Internationale; the Dadaist
Bauman lays his cards on the table when he says that "Dada is
the product of international hotel foyers."32 The environment
in which Dada was reared was that of the adventuristic bour­
geoisie of the war-the profit eers, the nouveaux riches, the
smugglers, the black-marketeers, or whatever else they were
called. Dada's sociopsychological twins in old Spain gave birth
to the so-called picaresque novel. They know no traditions ("je
ne veux meme pas savoir s'il y a eu des hommes avant moi");33 their
future is doubtful ("a bas Ielutu!'); they are in a hurry to take
what is theirs ("give and take, live and die").34 They are excep­
tionally supple and adaptable ("one can perform contrary
actions at the same time, in a single, fresh breath");35 they are
art �sts at what they do ("advertising and business are also poet­
ic clements"). 11, They do not object to the war ("still today for
1 72 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
war");37 yet they are the first to proclaim the cause of erasing
the boundaries between yesterday's warring powers ("me, I'm of
many nationalities").38 When it comes right down to it, they are
satisfied and therefore prefer bars ("he holds war and peace in
his toga, but decides in favor of a cherry brandy flip"),39 Here,
amid the "cosmopolitan mixture of god and the bordello," in
Tzara's testimonial, Dada is born.40
"The time is Dada-ripe," Huelsenbeck assures us. "With
Dada it will ascend, and with Dada it will vanish."41
E S S AY S / 1 73
THE NEWEST RUS SIAN PO ETRY:
VELIMIR XLEB NIKO V [ EXC ER P TS ]
I t is difficult to avoid schematization and a certain mechanical
approach when we deal with the facts of a language spoken in
the past. Even the specialist in language finds an everyday con­
versation more understandable than the Stoglav.1 In just the
same way Pushkin's verse-as a poeticfoct-is less intelligible
and more obscure than that of Majakovskij or Xlebnikov.
We apprehend each new manifestation of the contemporary
poetic language in its necessary relationship with three factors:
the existing poetic tradition, the everyday language of the pre­
sent time, and the developing poetic tendencies with which the
given manifestation is confronted.
Xlebnikov describes the latter factor as follows: "When I
observed how old poetry suddenly grew dim when the future
that was hidden in it became the present day, I understood that
the native land of creative work is the future. It is from the
future that the wind of the gods of poetry blows."
When we deal with poets of the past, these factors must be
reconstructed, and this can be done only partially and with
great difficulty.
When Pushkin's poetry first appeared it was, in the expres­
sion of a journal of his time, "a phenomenon in the history of
1 74 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
the Russian language and versification"; and at that time critics
did not ponder over "the wisdom of Pushkin," but rather asked:
"Why do these beautiful verses have meaning? Why do they
affect more than just our hearing?"
Today Pushkin is a common household word, a repository
of household philosophy. Pushkin's verse, as verse, is now sim­
ply taken on faith: having become the object of a kind of cult,
it has petrified. It is not surprising that even experts on Pushkin
such as Lerner and Shchegolev2 fell for the bait when they took
a clever counterfeit by a certain young poet as an authentic
work of the great master.
Pushkin-like poems are now as easy to print as counterfeit
Kerenskip bills; they lack any value of their own and circulate
only in the absence of good hard cash.
We are inclined to speak of ease and unobtrusiveness of tech­
nique as the characteristic features of Pushkin. But this is an
error of perspective. Pushkin's verse is for us an established form;
our conclusion that it is simple follows from this. It was a quite
different matter for Pushkin's contemporaries. Consider their
reaction, and that of Pushkin himself For example, an iambic
pentameter without a caesura seems to us quite smooth and
easy. But Pushkin had a special feeling for it, he sensed it as a
difficult form and as a violent departure from earlier practice:
To tell the truth, in a pentameter
I love a caesura on the second foot.
If not, the line moves from pit to knoll.
Although now I'm lying comfortably on a soft bed,
It seems to me I am speeding in a cart
In a jolting dash across a frozen field.
Form exists for us only as long as it is difficult to perceive, as
long as we sense the resistance of the material, as long as we
E S S AY S I 1 75
waver as to whether what we read is prose or poetry, as long as
our "cheekbones ache," as General Ermolov's cheekbones
ached, according to Pushkin's report, during the reading of
Griboedov's4 verse.
And yet even now scholarship deals only with deceased
poets, or if now and then live ones are touched upon, it is only
such as are firmly established in many volumes and by wide cir­
culation. What has become a truism in the study of everyday
language is still considered heresy by the students of poetic lan­
guage who generally tag along far behind linguistics.
Students of the poetry of the past usually impose their own
aesthetic attitudes on that past, project the contemporary
methods of poetic production into the past. This is the reason
for the scientific unsoundness of the studies in rhythm by the
modernists, who read into Pushkin the current deformation
of syllabo-tonic5 verse. The past is examined-or rather,
assessed-from the standpoint of the present, but scientific
poetics will become possible only when it refuses to offer value
judgments. Wouldn't it be absurd for a linguist to assess values
to dialects according to their relative merits?
The development of a theory of poetic language will be pos­
sible only when poetry is treated as a social fact, when a kind of
poetic dialectology is created.
From the point of view of this dialectology, Pushkin is the
center of a poetic culture of a particular time, with a definite
zone of influence. From this point of view, the poetic dialects of
one zone, when they gravitate toward the cultural center of
another, can be subdivided, like dialects of practical language,
into: transitional dialects which have adopted a set of canons
from the center of gravity; semitransitional dialects which
adopt certain poetic tendencies from the center of gravity; and
mixed di alects which adopt occasional alien elements or
1 7 6 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
devices. Finally, it is essential to bear in mind the existence of
archaic dialects with a conservative tendency, the center of
gravity of which belongs to the past.
II
Xlebnikov is called a futurist; his poems are printed in futurist
collections. Futurism is of course a new movement6 in European
art, and I shall not offer a more precise definition of the term
now. Such definitions can only be arrived at inductively, through
the analysis of many and complex artistic phenomena.
Any a priori formula suffers from dogmatism, since it sets
up an artificial and premature distinction between real futurism
and pseudofuturism, and the like. I should not like to repeat the
methodological error of those contemporaries of romanticism,
some of whom, according to Pushkin, considered romantic all
works bearing the imprint of dreaminess and melancholy, while
others regarded neologisms and grammatical mistakes as
romantic.
I shall touch on just one feature which some experts on
futurism, introducing extraneous factors into the study of poet­
ry, have considered to be the essential component. I offer some
excerpts from the manifestoes of Marinetti:7
We shall sing of the great crowds tossed about by work, by
pleasure, or revolt; the many-colored and polyphonic surf of
revolutions in modem capitals; the nocturnal vibration of the
arsenals and the yards under their violent electric moons; the
gluttonous railway stations swallowing smoky serpents; the
factories hung from the clouds by the ribbons of their
-smoke; the bridges leaping like athletes hurled over the dia­
bolical cutlery of sunny rivers; the adventurous steamers that
E S SAYS I 1 7 7
sniff the horizon; the broad-chested locomotives, prancing
on the rails like great steel horses curbed by long pipes, and
the gliding flight of airplanes whose propellers snap like a
flag in the wind, like the applause of an enthusiastic crowd.
Thus it appears that new material and new concepts in the
poetry of the Italian futurists have led to a renewal of the
devices of poetry and of artistic forms, and in this way, suppos­
edly, the idea of parole in liberta, (the free word) for instance,
came into being. But this is a reform in the field of reportage,
not in poetic language.
Let me say parenthetically that at the moment I'm only
talking about Marinetti as a theoretician. As far as his poetry is
concerned, all this may serve only as rationalization, as a par­
ticular application of a poetic fact.
We see that for Marinetti the impulse for innovation was
the need to tell of new facts in the material and psychological
worlds.
But the Russian futurists advanced a totally different thesis:
Once there is new form it follows that there is new con­
tent: form thus conditions content.
Our creative shaping of speech throws everything into a
new light.
It is not new subject matter that defines genuine innovation.
New light shed on the old world can yield the most fanci­
ful play. ( Kruchenyx8 in the collection
The Three. )
The aim of poetry is here very clearly formulated, and it is
precisely the Russian futurists who invented a poetry of the
"self-developing, self-valuing word," as the established and
clearly visible material of poetry. And so it is not surprising that
Xlehnikov's poems sometimes deal with the depths of the Stone
Age, sometimes with the Russo-Japanese War, sometimes with
178 / MY F UT U R I S T YEARS
the days of Prince Vladimir . . . and then again with the future
of the world.
.
.
.
In normal, everyday linguistic cerebration, according to
Professor Shcherba's9 formula, "the stimuli we receive and the
results of their assimilation are not distinguished in our con­
sciousness as two events separated in time. In other words we
don't know the difference between the objectively given sen­
sations and the result of a given perception."
In emotive language and poetic language, the verbal repre­
sentations (phonetic as well as semantic) concentrate on them­
selves greater attention; the connection between the aspect of
sound and that of meaning is tighter, more intimate, and lan­
guage is accordingly more revolutionary, insofar as habitual
associations by contiguity (smezhnosr) retreat into the back­
ground. Note, for example, that appellative words-and hence
personal names in general-undergo a rich variety of phonet­
ic and formative modifications.
But beyond this there is no necessary affinity between
emotive and poetic language. In emotive expression passion­
ate outbursts govern the verbal mass, and precisely that "tur­
bulent steam of emotion bursts the pipe of the sentence." But
poetry-which is simply utterance for the purpose of
expression-is governed, so to speak, by its own immanent
laws; the communicative function, essential to both practical
language and emotive language, has only minimal importance
in poetry.10 Poetry is indifferent to the subject of the utter­
ance, while, on the other hand, practical or more exactly
objective (sachliche) prose is indifferent-in Saran's formula­
tion-to rhythm. II
E S S AY S / 1 7 9
Of course poetry can make use of the methods of emotional
language, since the two are related in their purposes. Such uti­
lization is characteristic of the opening stages of certain poetic
movements, for instance romanticism. But poetic language is
not composed of "Affikttrager' (words that carry an emotive
effect) in Sperber's12 phrase, nor of the interjections and excla­
mations of hysterical discourse, as the Italian futurists have
decreed.
The plastic arts involve the shaping of self-sufficient visual
impressions, music the shaping of self-suffic ient sound materi­
al, dance the organization of the self-sufficient gesture; and
poetry is the formulation of the self-sufficient, "selfsome,"
word, as Xlebnikov puts it.
Poetry is language in its aesthetic function.
Thus the subject of literary scholarship is not literature but
literariness (iiteraturnost'), that is, that which makes of a given
work a work of literature. And yet literary scholars up to now
have often behaved like policemen who, in the course of arrest­
ing a particular person, would pick up, just in case, everybody
and anybody who happened to be in the apartment, as well as
people who happened to be passing on the street.
Similarly, the literary historian used anything that came to
hand: biographical evidence, psychology, politics, philosophy.
Instead of a literary science they created a conglomeration of
homegrown disciplines. They seemed to forget that their articles
deviated in the direction of those other disciplines-the history
of philosophy, the history of culture, psychology, and so forth,
and that while the latter may of course make use of literary
works, these are for their purposes only defective, second-rate
documents. If literary history wishes to become a science, it
must recognize "device" as its sole concern. Then the funda­
mental prohlem will concern the uses and justification of device.
180 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
One of the commonest applications, or rather, in the given
ease, justifications of poetic language is emotional or mental
experience, which serves as a kind of catchall where we may
dispose of anything that can't be justified or explained in practi­
cal terms, or rationalized.
When Majakovskij writes:
I'll reveal for you, in words as simple as mooing,
Your new souls that hum like arc lights,
it is the words "as simple as mooing" that interest us as poetic
evidence, while the "soul" is secondary, ancillary, superimposed.
The romantics are often described as explorers of man's spir­
itual realm and poets of emotional experience, but as a matter
of fact the contemporaries of the romantics thought of the
movement exclusively in terms of its formal innovations. They
observed first of all the destruction of the classical unities. And
the testimony of contemporaries is the only valid evidence.
[We omit a fairly long excerpt from articles in the journals
Moscow Telegraph, 1 827, pt. 15, no. 10 and Son ofthe Fatherland,
1829, pt. 125, no. 15, which emphasize the formal innovations
of the Byronic tale, but explain them as answering the needs of
the "modern sou1."]
Thus it is clear that a particular literary device was being
logically justified by reference to the titanic and rebellious spir­
it, the free and arbitrary imagination.
The sentimentalists use the same device in embryonic form,
where it is motivated by supposed "sentimental journeys."
Similarly the mystical and "nature philosophy" elements of the
romantic artistic credo simply serve as justification for an irra­
tional poetic structure. The same is true for dreams, delirium,
and other pathological phenomena, when they are used as
E S SAYS / 1 8 1
poetic motifs. A typical illustration o f the same sort of thing is
Symbolism.
Take a verbal joke of the type "I was walking along, and
there's a hut. I stopped in, the dough-trough is kneading the
woman. I smirked, but the trough did not like it, it grabbed the
stove out of the shovel and was going to hit me; I leapt through
my trousers and ripped out the threshold and ran away"
(Onchukov, Northern Tales, p. 74), and compare it with an
excerpt from Gogol':
Everything i n him turned into a n undefined trembling, every
feeling burned and everything before him appeared through
a kind of fog; the sidewalk moved under him, carriages with
galloping horses seemed immovable, a bridge was stretching
and breaking in its are, a house stood upside down, a sentry
box was falling toward him, and a sentry's halberd, along with
the golden words of a sign and the scissors drawn on it,
seemed to sparkle on his very eyelashes. And all this was pro­
duced by one glance, one turn of a pretty little head. ("Nevskij
Prospect.")
The same device which in the verbal joke is motivated by
humorous intent, is used by Gogol ' to evidence the sudden
onset of passion.
In Xlebnikov's poem The Crane, a boy sees that the factory
chimneys have begun to dance, that a revolt of things is going
on:
On the square in the damp of an entering corner
Where the needle radiant with gold
Covered the burial ground of tsars,
There a boy whispered in horrorhey! hey!
Look how the
i
c h mn eys
dru n k --- there!
started reeling around
1 8 2 / MY F UT U R I S T YEARS
The stuttering lips were pale with horror
And his glance was riveted up high.
What? Is the boy delirious in broad daylight?
I call the boy.
But he is silent and suddenly runs­
What a furious race!
Slowly I get out my glasses.
And it's really as though the chimneys
craned their necks.
Here we have the realization of the same trope, the projec­
tion of a literary device into artistic reality, the turning of a poet­
ic trope into a poetic fact, into a plot element. Here, however,
the image structure is still partly explained in logical fashion by
reference to a pathological state of mind.
In another poem by Xlebnikov, however, Marquise Desaix,
even this motivation is lacking. Pictures at an exhibition simply
come to life; then they bring the other things to life, while peo­
ple turn to stone.
But why is a smile, with a schoolgirl's modesty,
about to answer, "I am of stone and of sky-blue, sir. "
But why so ruthlessly and hopelessly did the clothes of
snow-covered bodies suddenly fall away.
The heart, accessible before to the full measure of
feelings,
Suddenly became a lump of mindless clay.
Laughing, grumbling, cackling,
Creatures rose against the rich,
Under an invisible shadow of a threat they lit up
the slaves' rebellion,
Aad who are their victims? We, the same people,
the same.
Dark-blue and red-green roosters
Come down from hats and peck at artifacts.
Gold patches on teeth
Standing like apparitions from the grave,
E S S AY S I 1 8 3
There baring their teeth a snowy pair of
ermine gallop, racing, throwing back their
shoulders and bright blue cocks.
There the rye forms ears in a luxuriant sheaf.
A young goldfinch builds a nest i n someone's
dumbfounded mouth. Then everything approached a
mysterious line and limit.
There is a similar "realization of the device," laid bare of any
logical motivation, in Majakovskij's Tragedy (a literary miracle):
Suddenly,
all things went rushing off, ripping
their voices,
and casting off tatters of outworn names.
Wineshop windows, all on their own,
splashed in the bottoms of bottles,
as though stirred by the finger of S atan.
From the shop of a tailor who'd fainted,
trousers escaped
and went walking along­
alone,
without human buttocks!
Out of a bedroom,
a drunken commode­
its black maw agape­
came stumbling.
Corsets wept, afraid of tumbling
down from signs reading "Robes et Modes."
The city offers material that fits neatly the structure of the
verbal paradox and similar structures, as the examples we've
seen from Gogoi ', Majakovskij, and Xlebnikov clearly indicate.
Urbanism offers opportunities for the application of a number
of poetic devices: hence the urban verses of Majakovskij and
Xlcbnikov.
184 I MY F UT U R I S T YEARS
Yet at the same time Majakovskij says: ''Abandon cities, you
foolish people."
Or as Xlebnikov puts it:
There's a certain fat gourmand who's fond of impaling
human hearts on his spit, and who derives a mild enjoyment
from the sound of hissing and breaking as he sees the bright
red drops falling into the fire and flowing down-and the
name of that fat man is-"the city."
What do we have here, a contradiction?
Let others superimpose upon the poet the thoughts
expressed in his works! To incriminate the poet with ideas and
emotions is as absurd as the behavior of the medieval audiences
that beat the actor who played Judas and just as foolish as to
blame Pushkin for the death of Lenskij .
Why should the poet be held answerable for a clash o f ideas
but not for a duel with swords or pistols?
We have already characterized metamorphosis as the realiza­
tion of a verbal construction: as a rule such a realization
involves the development in time of a reverse parallelism
(specifically an antithesis). If a negative parallelism rejects the
category of metaphor in the name of the category of the real,
then reverse parallelism denies the real in the name of
metaphor.
For example:
Those forests standing on the hill are not forests; they are
the hair growing on the shaggy head of the forest grand­
father. Beneath it, in the water, his beard is awash; under his
E S S AY S / 185
beard and above his head is the high heaven. Those mead­
ows are not meadows, but a green belt encircling the middle
of the round sky.
(Gogol ', ''A Terrible Vengeance.")
You think, on the cheeks of the cafe
It's the sun that lovingly caresses?
That's once again General Gallifet
Coming to shoot down the rebels.
(Majakovskij, A
Cloud in Trousers. )
(Incidentally, erotic poetry is rich in examples of reverse par­
allelism.)
Let us suppose we have a real image: a head. The metaphor:
a beer mug. An example of negative paralellism would be "that 's
not a mug but a head." Logical reduction of the parallelism is a
simile: "a head like a beer mug." And, finally, the development
in time of a reverse parallel, a metamorphosis: "the head
became a beer mug" ("the head is no longer a head but a beer
mug").
* * *
There is an example of realized simile in Xlebnikov's play
Deaths Mistake. The lady death says that her head is as empty
as a drinking glass. The guest asks for a drinking glass. Death
unscrews her head.
And here is an example of realized hyperbole:
I flew off like a curse
My other foot was already in the next street13
(Majakovskij).
The realized oxymoron betrays its essentially verbal nature;
though it has meaning, it does not have anything which could
he called, i n the terminology of contemporary philosophy, a
186 / MY F UT U R I S T YEARS
proper object (as, for example, a "squared circle"). The charac­
ter Kovalev in Gogol" s story "The Nose" recognizes the nose as
such even though it shrugs its shoulders, is in full uniform, and
so forth.
Notice also the description of a miracle from one of the
saints' lives in The Brothers Karamazov (in a humorous applica­
tion): "The saint was tortured for his faith, and when they cut
off his head at last, he got up, picked up the head, and politely
kissed it."
In this case a human being is simply a traditional semantic
unit which retains all of its attributes; in other words the
semantic unit has become frxed.
The abrogation of the boundary between real and frgurative
meanings is characteristic of poetic language. Poetic language
frequently operates with real images as though they were pure­
ly verbal frgures (the device of reverse realization). Such is the
case with puns.
1 . In Dostoevskij's Brothers Karamazov there is a conversa­
tion between a marquis, who is ailing, and his spiritual father, a
Jesuit: "Even if a stern fate has deprived you of your nose, you
may derive profrt from this in that no one your whole life long
will dare to tell you that your nose has been tweaked."14 "Good
father . . . I would on the contrary be willing to have my nose
tweaked every day of my life if only that nose were in its prop­
er place."-"My son . . . since you proclaim that you would
gladly have your nose tweaked all your life, then I must say that
even in this your desire has been indirectly satisfred, since,
because you've lost your nose, by that very fact you've had your
nose tweaked."
E S S AYS / 1 8 7
And from Anna Karenina: "She brought back with her
Vronskij's shadow," said the envoy's wife. "Well, what of it?
There's a Grimm fairy tale: a man is without his shadow, it's
been taken away from him as a punishment for something. I
could never understand why it was a punishment. But it would
be very unpleasant for a woman without her shadow." "Yes, but
women with shadows usually end badly."
It is the conversion of real images into figures, their meta­
phorization, that forms the basis of Symbolism as a poetic
school.
The idea of space as a pictorial convention, a kind of
ideogram of time, has penetrated the study of painting, but the
problem of time and space as forms of poetic language is still a
stranger to scholarship. The fact that language does violence to
literary space is especially clear in the example of descriptions,
where items that coexist spatially are arranged in temporal
sequence. On this ground Lessing either rejects descriptive
poetry or else fully accepts the violence done by language,
insisting upon motivating narrative temporal sequence by actu­
al temporal sequence, that is to say by describing an object as it
comes into being, a suit as its pants are put on by the wearer,
and so forth.
Concerning literary time, the device of temporal displace­
ment offers a rich field for investigation. I've already cited the
remark of a critic that "Byron began his stories either in the
middle or at the end." Or consider Tolstoj's "The Death of
Ivan Il 'ich," where the denouement is given before the story
begins; and Goncharov's Oblomov, where a temporal displace­
ment is motivated by the hero's dream, and many other exam­
ples. There is a certain type of reader who foists this device on
any literary work by starting to read at the end of the story. We
find i n Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" a kind of laboratory
2.
188 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
experiment in the device of temporal shift: only at the very end
are things, as it were, turned inside out.
Xlebnikov offers an example of the realization of a temporal
shift, and one, moreover, which is "laid bare" (obnazhennlj), that
is to say, not motivated, in his World in Reverse . . . which has
the effect of a motion picture film run backwards.
.
.
.
Another kind of temporal displacement favored by Xlebnikov
is the anachronism. Take for example the poem "School" where
the heroine is a student in the modem Bestuzhev Institute
while the hero is the boyar's son Volodimirko. Or take
"Malusha's Granddaughter" which reminds us of Tolstoj's
"Hero-Flood," with the sole exception that the temporal shift
in Xlebnikov is not logically motivated (see below for unmoti­
vated similes).
In the story "Ka," a whole series of time factors are woven
together: "He has no outposts in time. Ka moves from dream to
dream, intersects time and achieves bronzes (the bronzes of
time). He disposes himself in the centuries as comfortably as in
a swing. And isn't it so that the consciousness brings various
times together just as an armchair and straight chairs are
brought together by a drawingroom."
Certain of Xlebnikov's works are composed by arbitrarily
stringing together various story elements. Such is The Little
Devil, and perhaps also Children of the Otter. (When story ele­
ments are arbitrarily arranged they don't follow one after
another by logical necessity but are linked on the principle of
formal likeness or contrast; we may compare the Decameron,
where the stories of each day are linked only by similar plot sit­
uations.) This device has an ancient sanction, but in
E S S AY S / 1 8 9
Xlebnikov's case i t i s "laid bare," that is, no line of justification
is provided.
III
Colloquial speech provides the material for a major part of
Xlebnikov's works. This reminds us ofMallarme, who once said
that he offered the bourgeois words which the latter reads every
day in his newspapers but offered them in a startling context.
Only against the background of the familiar does the unfamil­
iar reach and impress us. There comes a time when the tradi­
tional poetic language hardens into stereotype and is no longer
capable of being felt but is experienced rather as a ritual, as a
holy text in which even the errors are considered sacred. The
language of poetry is as it were covered by a veneer-and nei­
ther its tropes nor its poetic licenses any longer speak to the
consciousness. Form takes possession of the matter; the matter
is totally dominated by the form. Then form becomes stereo­
type, and it is no longer alive. When this happens an access of
new verbal material is required, an addition of fresh elements
from the everyday language, to the end that the irrational struc­
tures of poetry may once again disturb us, may once again hit a
vital spot.
Russian poetry has developed by way of constantly appro­
priating elements from the living language. This has been so
from S i meon Polockij 1 5 through Lomonosov,16 Derzhavin,
190 / MY F UTURIST YEARS
Pushkin, and Nekrasov17-and an example ofthe same process
in our own day is Majakovskij. The critics of Pushkin's day had
reason to be horrified at his "skates loudly cutting the ice," and
at that "awkward goose with its red pads," or at the "beaver col­
lar silvered with frosty dust."
[We omit an example from Pushkin's poetry oflines consid­
ered quite simple and clear by modern critics, but which
seemed strained and difficult to contemporaries.]
The gradual wearing away of artistic form is characteristic of
art forms other than poetry. Hanslick18 offers examples of ana­
logical developments in music:
How many of Mozart's compositions were in their day con­
sidered the last word in the daring expression of fiery pas­
sion . . . Mozart's bursts of hot emotion, of fierce struggle,
or of bitter and burning pain were at one time contrasted
with that sense of a calm and pure enjoyment of life which
supposedly flowed from the symphonies of Haydn. And
twenty or thirty years later the same problem arose in com­
paring Mozart with Beethoven. The place of Mozart as a
representative of violent impetuous emotion was taken by
Beethoven, while Mozart was elevated to the Olympus of
classical form occupied by Haydn. The well-known axiom
that the "truly beautiful" (and who's to judge of that?) never,
even over a long period, loses its charm has long since
become an empty phrase if it is applied to music. Music is
like nature, which each autumn sees hundreds of flowers
�ither, only to be replaced by new ones. A piece of music is
a human thing, the product of a certain person, time, and
cultural milieu, and therefore it always bears within itself
the seeds of a more or less rapid death . . . . Both the per­
formers and the audience feel a natural attraction to musi­
cal novelty. Critics who have learned how to honor what is
.old and established but haven't the heart to recognize what's
new are guilty of destroying the productive forces. (From
On the Beautiful in Music.)
E S S AY S / 1 9 1
Symbolist literary criticism in Russia at the present time
suffers from just such an uneasiness about novelty. "Lyric poet­
ry can be properly assessed only after the poet has passed away,"
they say (from Works and Days, No. 3, 1920).
And consider Brjusov's opinion that "it's hard to evaluate and
judge a poet before his career is completed. Our opinion of
Goethe's Werther is far different from that of his contemporaries
who read it when it first appeared and could not know that
Goethe would one day write the two parts of Faust " (from
Those Distant and Near, p. 54).
It follows as a natural conclusion that we should observe
pictures only in museums, only after they've been covered with
the moss of centuries. And the conclusion also follows that the
poetic language of the past must be preserved; that the diction,
syntax, and word usage of an earlier generation must be
imposed as a norm.
Poetry makes use of "unusual words." Specific cases of
"unusual words" are those which are in need of a gloss, a spe­
cial explanation (glossy). In this class are archaisms, barbarisms,
and provincialisms. But the Symbolists forget something that
was quite clear to Aristotle, namely that "one and the same
word can be both a 'gloss' and in common use, but not for the
same people"; they forget that what was a "gloss" for Pushkin is
a stereotype in the contemporary poetic language. For instance
Vjacheslav Ivanov19 even goes so far as to recommend to begin­
ning poets that they try to use in the main only Pushkinian
words: if a word is in Pushkin that in itself is a criterion of its
poetic quality.
192 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
IV
Xlebnikov's syntax (some observations). In the Russian language
word order is almost never a determinant of meaning. The
matter is somewhat different, however, in Russian poetry,
where the regular intonation of everyday language is broken
down. There is a sharp syntactic shift from the norms of every­
day language even in the poetry of the Pushkin school, and in
Majakovskij's radical rhythmic reform we observe the same
phenomenon. When we turn to the poetry of Xlebnikov, how­
ever, we find that in this respect it is atypical.
According to Peshkovskij,20 "verb usage is the basic form of
our linguistic cerebration. The predicate-the verb-is the
most important member of the sentence and of our speech in
general."
However in poetic language there is often a marked tenden­
cy toward verblessness. Fet's21 verbless experiments immediately
come to mind, and these inspired Xlebnikov to pure imitation:
"Whispering, muttering, rapture's groan, dark red of shame."
1. The earliest known photo ofR.O. J akobson, Riga, c. 1898, with his mother's family, the Vol'perts. He is s
on the floor with his cousins, to the right. His parents, Anna (Vol'pert) and Osip Jakobson, are above him t
right. In the center is his grandfather, Jakov Vol'pert. The Jakobson Foundation.
2. R 0. Jakobson. Moscow, 1901. The Jakobson Foundation.
3. Standing, from left: Unknown, S.O. Jakobson, L Vol'pert (with
cap), Eva (Vol'pert) Kaplan-Kaplanskij, L.Ju. Kagan (Lili Brik),
Anna (Vol'pert) Jakobson. Sitting: Henriette Vol'pert, M. Vol'pert
(on her lap). On the ground: R.O. Jakobson, E.Ju. Kagan (Elsa
Triolet). Moscow, 1903. T he Jakobson Foundation.
4. R.O. Jakobson. Moscow, 1905. The Jakobson
Foundation.
I
I
l
I
5. R.O. Jakobson. Prague, 1920.
The Jakobson Foundation.
6. Marija Sinjakova, portrait of Velimir Xlebnikov, n.d.
Courtesy of Charlotte Douglas.
7. Boris Pasternak, 1930s.
8. Vladimir Majakovskij, 19205. Photograph by
Laszlo Moholy-Nagy.
9. Jakobson with Staff of the Soviet Red Cross Mission. (The man with the beard in
the center is its director, Dr. Gillerson.) Terezin, 1920. The Jakobson Foundation.
10. From top to bottom: R .O. Jakobson, Teodor
Nette, Zemit-Zimin. Prague, summer 1920.
The Jakobson Foundation.
11. Elsa Triolet. Paris, May 1921. Archive of V. V.
Katanjan.
12. L.Ju. and O.M. Brik, R.O. Jakobson, v.v.
Majakovskij. Bad Flinsberg, July 1923.
The Jakobson Foundation.
13. Philological meeting in Brno, late 1926. From left to right: R.O. Jakobson, N.S.
Trubetzkoy, P.G . Bogaty rev, and N.N. Durnovo. The Jakobson Foundation.
14. The folklorist P.G. Bogatyrev with a leopard cub.
Prague Zoo, 1928. The Jakobson Foundation.
15. From top to bottom: Karel Teige, R.O. Jakobson, Vitezslav
Nezval. Brno, 1933. The Jakobson Foundation.
16. R.O. Jakobson. Gotland, 1977. Archive of Bengt Jangfeldt.
E S S AY S / 1 9 3
v
[We omit a brief section m which Jakobson deals with
Xlebnikov's tendency to select epithets for euphonic rather
than semantic reasons: for example, "strange fear"-strannij
strax; "full flame" polnyj plamen'.]
Often enough the function of an epithet is simply to
emphasize an attribute as a syntactic fact; we have to do here
with a "stripping bare of the attribute." a.M. Brik22 has made
the acute observation that the poets of the Pushkin "Pleiade"
accomplished this in two ways: either by the use of what he
calls "indifferent epithets," for instance ''pure beauty," "divine
head," or even "a certain czar in a certain year"; or by the use of
strained epithets having, as one of Pushkin's contemporaries
put it, "no concrete relationship to the noun they quality," and
which the critic proposed to call "adherent" rather than "adjec­
tive" forms. This latter type of epithet is quite characteristic of
Xlebnikov. Examples:
-
A crown of clever petals
(xitryx lepestkov)
(Iepestki mudrye)
In the wise woods (v umnyx lesax).
Wise petals
Epithets in Xlebnikov's early ( impressionistic ) works are often
created by a certain situation, for instance:
And the evening wine
(i vechernee vino)
(i vechernye zhenshchiny)
Woven into a single wreath (spletajutsja v edinij venok).
And the evening women
Similes. The problem of Xlebnikov's similes is extremely com­
plicated. I oHcr here only certain guideposts. What is a poetic
1 94 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
simile? If we ignore for the moment its function as a factor
making for symmetry, we may characterize the simile as one of
the methods for introducing into the poetic situation an order
of facts not occasioned by the logical movement of the narra­
tion. Xlebnikov's similes are hardly ever motivated by any
impression of real similarity of objects, but are simply compo­
sitional effects. If we accept Xlebnikov's statement that there
are words with which we see-"word-eyes"-and words with
which we "do"-"wordhands"-and if we apply this formula­
tion to similes we will see that Xlebnikov's similes are precisely
"simile-hands."
Contamination of comparisons is common in his work:
"Like a black sail on the white sea its fierce pupils cut the
eyes aslant: the frightening white eyes were raised toward the
brows in the head of the dead one hanging by a braid" (from
Esir).
We have here a contamination of qualities: in color-white
and black, and line-sail and sea .
.
.
.
Often enough the subject of a simile is selected not so much
because of its similarity to the object of the simile, but rather in
a different and larger context. . . . For instance:
Dear city, there's something of an old lady in you:
She seats herself on her box and would eat a bit,
Shakes her babushka, and it's not a simple babushka,
From one side to the other a flock of black birds flies.
The network of analogies Xlebnikov offers is very complex.
Space and time are juxtaposed, visual and auditory perceptions,
personages and action.
E S S AY S / 1 9 5
"Terrible is the hunt when the sedge i s years, and the
game-generations. "
"And your eyes are a hut where two stepmother-spinners
work the spindle."
VI
That set on expression, on the verbal mass itself, which I have
called the only essential characteristic of poetry, is directed not
only to the form of the phrase, but also to the form of the word
itself. Mechanical associations between sound and meaning are
established more easily as they become more habitual. For this
reason the everyday practical language is extremely conservative:
the form of a word rapidly ceases to be felt.
In poetry, on the other hand, the operation of mechanical
association is reduced to a minimum, while the dissociation of
verbal elements acquires great importance. Dissociated frag­
ments are readily combined into new formations. Dead afflxes
come to life.
Dissociation may be quite arbitrary, done simply for the
purpose of devising new suffIxes (a process familiar in everyday
speech, take for example the form golubchik ['darling,' based on
golub'-'dove'J , but in poetry the process is gready intensifled).
Take, for example, the invented forms used in children's lan­
guage: soxrun, mokrun (based on sox--'dry,' and mokr--'wet') .
Poetry has from the earliest times engaged in play with suf­
flxes; but o nl y in modern poetry, and particularly in Xlebnikov,
has this devin' hl'come co n s c i ous , and as it were legitimate.
1 9 6 / MY F U TU R I S T Y E A R S
[Here Jakobson gives a number of examples from litera­
ture-Russian folklore, children's jingles, charms, and popular
songs-which show the tendency in certain speech situations
to augment and enrich the normal word forms by attaching
various new sufflxes. Most of these are untranslatable, though
analogical processes in English might be found. Examples:
xlebrxlebisty, begun'ki-begut, skriputki-skripjat (from xle�
'bread,' beg-'speed, ' skrip--'squeak.') ]
The possibility of isolating in a given word those parts
which belong to the root and those forms which are appended
to the root arises as a result of the mental association of these
elements in the given word with corresponding elements in
other combinations and in other words.
In the poems of Xlebnikov which give free reign to verbal
creativity, we flnd juxtaposed as a rule either 1) neologisms with
identical roots but different formants (preflxes, sufflxes, and
affIXes), or 2) neologisms with identical formants and different
roots. But in a poem the dissociation takes place not within the
given structure of a language as a whole, as we have observed
happening in the practical language, but within the framework
of a particular poem, which as it were forms a closed linguistic
system.
Let us see some examples.
1. First, we observe cases in which the root remains un­
changed but the formants are different; in other words, we have
a complex tautological construction, or a kind of "laying bare" of
the "paregmenon" of classical rhetoric. Xlebnikov frequendy uses
productive extension of words without any logical justification,
and this quite apart from the introduction of neologisms.
o laugh it up you laughletes!
o laugh it out you laughletes!
E S SAYS / 1 9 7
That laugh with laughs, that laugherize laughily
o laugh it out so laughily
o of laughing at laughiliesthe laugh of laughish laugherators
Laughterly, laughterly
Outlaugh, downlaugh, laughlets, laughlets.
Laughulets, laughulets
o laugh it up you laughers!
o laugh it up you laughers!
(0 rassmejtes ' smexachi!
o zasmejtes ' smexachi!
Chto smejutsja smexami, chto smejanstvujut smejal'no
o zasmejtes ' usmejal'no
o rassmeshishch nadsmejal'nyx­
smex nadsmejnyx smexachej, etc. )
2. The second type of example involves identical formants
but with different root materials. Such forms often rhyme, as
though in contradiction to the tendency of modern poetry not
to rhyme identical parts of speech. The essence of rhyme
according to Shcherba's formulation lies in the recognition of
rhythmically repeated similar phonetic elements; but in the
present case it consists in the segregation of identical formants,
which facilitates dissociation.
[Jakobson here gives two sets of examples, in the first of
which all of the words involved are neologisms, while in the
second some are words used in the everyday language. The
examples are not translatable, but the point is clear from a
transliteration of some of them:
Letaja nebu rad zoriT
Sladok, dumaet gorir';
Vezde presleduet mogun
Vezde
prcsleduct hegun]
1 98 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
Economy of words is a virtue alien to poetry, except where
it is justified by some speeial poetic purpose. Neologisms enrich
poetry in three ways: l. They create a bright euphonic stroke,
while the established words become phonetically obsolete,
being worn out by constant use, and, most important, because
they are only partially apprehended in their phonetic patterns;
2. In the practical language the form of the word is no longer
appreciated; it is dormant and petrified. However we cannot
help apprehending the form of a poetic neologism, given so to
speak in statu nascendi; 3. The meaning of a word at any given
moment is more or less static, but the meaning of a neologism
is to a significant extent defined by its context, while at the
same time it may oblige the reader to a certain etymological
cerebration. And incidentally, etymology always plays a role in
poetry. Two types of situations are possible in this connection:
A) A renovation ofmeaning, for instance in Derzhavin's tuch­
nye tuchi.23 Such a renewal can be effected not only by the jux­
taposition of words having one and the same root, but also by
using a word in its literal meaning which the everyday language
uses only figuratively, i.e. "the great bulk of bad weather," "a
cloud lightninglike and black.24
B) Poetic etymology. This process is analogous to the popu1ar etymology of practical language. Professor ZubaC25 has
offered some very interesting examples from Lithuanian
folklore. Here is a Russian translation which approximates the
original: "Pjal' volkov volka voloklo" ('Five wolves dragged the
wolf).
In the play Mrs. Leneen, we find another type of fractional
semantic unit. Here Xlebnikov has tried to find, as he himself
put it, "infinitesimals" of artistic language. There is no complete
character; instead he is split up into a number of constituent
voices: the voice of sight, of hearing, of reason, of fear, and so
E S S AY S / 1 9 9
on. What we have here is a kind of "realized synecdoche."
Consider also the story "Ka," where the soul is divided into
constituent personages: Ka, Xu, and Ba.
Semantic deformation in poetry occurs in many different
ways, and parallel to it we have also phonetic deformations.
Take, for example, the splitting of words, A) for rhythmic pur­
poses (in Horace, in Annenskij,26 and in Majakovskij), or, B)
the insertion of one word into another, a device not unconge­
nial to Xlebnikov (for instance his etymology Po-do-l, ko-do-l).
That device was even used by the Latin poets, by Vergil for
instance; "cere-comminuit-brum."
Examples of this can be found in contemporary poetry, for
instance in Majakovskij, where there is however a measure of
logical justification:
They were talking on the sidewalk
(Vygovorili na trotuare
"Pos-
"Poch-
And the car wheel turned again
Perekinulos ' na shinu
-toffice."
-ta" )
Shifts of accent also come under the heading of phonetic
deformation.
[Jakob son gives a number of untranslatable examples from
folklore of words accented abnormally, as also of cases where
poetry makes use of accentual "doublets," offering more than
one accented form when more than one is possible.]
[We omit some untranslatable examples of phonetic and
semantic deformation in which, as Jakobson puts it, the verbal
form, both internal and external, is fully experienced, though
the words are empty of content-ed.]
.
.
.
200 / MY F UT U R I S T YEARS
VII
Poetic language possesses a certain rather elementary device:
the rapprochement and commingling of distinct units of
speech.
In the area of semantics varieties of this device are known as:
the simile, which is a particular case of parallelism; the meta­
morphosis, in other words a parallelism developed in time; and
metaphor, or a parallelism reduced to a single point.
In the area of euphony we find the following varieties of the
device: rhyme, assonance, and alliteration (or sound repetition).
It is possible to produce verses characterized by an emphasis
primarily on euphony. But is this sort of emphasis equivalent to
the accentuation of pure sound? If the answer is yes, then we
have a species of vocal music, and vocal music of an inferior
kind at that.
Euphony operates, however, not with sounds but with
phonemes, that is, with acoustical impressions which are capa­
ble of being associated with meaning.
.
.
.
The form of a word can be apprehended only as it is a regu­
lar and repeated part of a given linguistic system. A totally
isolated form dies out; and similarly a sound combination in a
given poem (which is a kind oflinguistic system in statu nascen­
di) becomes a kind of "sound image" (O.M. Brik's term27) and
is apprehended only as a repeated part of a poem's system of
"sound images."
E S S AY S / 2 0 1
In modern poetry special attention is given to consonants
and, therefore, sound repetitions of the type AB, ABC, and so
forth, are often illuminated by poetic etymology in such a way
that the concept of basic meaning is linked with repeated clus­
ters of consonants, while the differing vowel sounds come to
seem as it were an inflection of the root, having the formal sig­
nificance either of word-formants or of word-modifiers.
The following important statement ofXlebnikov character­
izes poetic etymology as a fact of linguistic cerebration:
Have you ever heard of internal declension? Case forms
within the word? If the genitive case answers the question
"whence?" and the accusative and dative eases answer the
question "whither?" and "where?" then the inflection of the
root in those cases ought in the same way to give the result­
ing words opposite meanings . . . . Thus
bobr (beaver) and
babr (tiger) which mean respectively a harmless rodent and a
fierce predator and which are formed by the accusative and
genitive cases of the common root bo-, illustrate by their very
structure that a bobr should be hunted as a prize, while
a babr
should be feared, since man himself might well become the
object of the hunt. In this case the simplest form changes, by
alteration of cases, the sense of the word structure. In the one
word it is indicated that the action of struggle was directed
at the beast (accusative case "whither?") and in the other
word that the action arises from the beast (genitive case
"whence?"). Similarly beg (flight) is occasioned by fear, while
Bog (God) is a being toward whom fear ought to be direct­
ed. Thus the words les (forest) and lysyj (bald), or take two
words that are even more alike, lysina (bald spot) and lesina
(wooded spot), whose meaning involves the presence or
absence of a certain kind of growth; you know what
gora (bald mountain) means-bald
�ountains
lysaja
are hills or
heads deprived of forest-these words arose through the
alteration of the direction of a simple word by its declension
in the acclisative and the dative cases . . . . And so in other
202 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
examples the sounds
e and y are evidences o f different eases
les has dis­
appeared is called lysina. Similarly byk (bull) indicates that
object from which a blow is to be expected, while bok (flank)
of one and the same root. The area from which
indicates the place toward which the blow is to be directed.
( Union ojYouth, Almanac No. 3. )
[We omit two pages of examples of "root inflection" taken from
the works ofXlebnikov, Aseev, Majakovskij, and Guro.28 Some
typical examples:
The girls are wondering
(Devicy divjatsja)
On this night even the grave might love
( V etu noch' ljubit
i mogila mogfa)
Our god is speed (Nash bog beg).
We omit also two pages which give a wealth of examples of
complex consonantal structure in Xlebnikov's poetry, which
Jakobson analyzes according to the sound sequences that occur,
for instance
N-G: I v
utonnyx negax snega (In the buried luxury of snow)
bylyx belyx grez zari (The one-time white dreams
B -L, R-Z:
of dawn). ]
The practical language offers examples of the substitution of
an initial consonant by analogy (for example, devjat' [nine] , a
form which arose on the analogy of desjat' [ten]); this kind of
development is even more common in slips of the tongue; for
instance, the anticipation of the first sound of a following word:
skap stoit instead of shkap stoit ("the cupboard stands"), where
the initial sound "s" is substituted for "sh." Or the reverse of
that: lesa lostut in place of lesa rastut ("the forests grow").
In the poetry of Xlebnikov this linguistic phenomenon is
used as a poetic device: an initial consonant is often replaced by
E S S AY S / 203
another drawn from other poetic roots. The word in question
thus gains as it were a new sound character. Its meaning wavers,
and the word is apprehended as an acquaintance with a sud­
denly unfamiliar face, or as a stranger in whom we are able to
see something familiar.
[We omit additional examples, along with a lengthy foot­
note in which Jakobson outlines a method for a phonetic analy­
sis of the paired words, usually without definite meaning, that
occur in various languages, for example in Russian, gusli-musli,
gogol'-mogol'; in English we might suggest such pairs as hig­
gledy-piggledy, hurly-burly.]
VIII
The play on synonyms is a kind of partial emancipation of
words from meaning, that is to say, the second word does not
contribute a new meaning, while, on the other hand, it offers
the possibility of a differentiation of semantic nuances.
Examples:
He is naked and bare
( On gal i nag)
(Znaj i veda))
Who is our comrade and friend? (Kto nam tovarishch i drug)
Know and realize
The play on homonyms is exactly the opposite of the play on
synonyms, but both are based on an incongruity between the
unit of meaning and the word itself. A parallel situation in
painting is the lise of free-flowing color. Examples:
204 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
The braid [or scythe, another meaning of kosa-ed.] some­
times adorns the head, hanging down to the shoulders, some­
times cuts the grass.
(Kosa to ukrashaet temja, spuskaja' na
plech/� to kosit travu).
[We omit two pages of examples of play on homonyms and
synonyms taken from Russian folklore, children's songs, and
from Brjusov and Xlebnikov. The last of these examples, from
Xlebnikov, involves synonyms of opposite grammatical gender.
Jakobson elucidates.]
The final example is interesting as an indicator of the com­
pulsive influence of grammatical gender on the verbal image
itself When they are personified, words of feminine gender
will be represented by female persons, and words of masculine
gender by male persons. For example, when a Russian imagines
the days of the week as persons he will see Monday and Sunday
(masculine and neuter, respectively) as men, and Wednesday
(feminine) as a woman. It is interesting that the Russian
painter Repin should have been surprised that Stuck29 repre­
sented sin (in Gemman die Sunde, feminine; in Russian grex,
masculine) as a woman . . . .
Foreign and dialect words are sometimes favored for pur­
poses of synonymic play:
There half-fearfully they moan: God
( Tam polubojazlivo
stonut: Bog)
There they quietly whisper:
There they moan briefly:
Gott ( Tam shepchut tixo: Gott)
dieu ( Tam stonut kratko: D'e)
Foreign words in general are widely used in poetry because
their sound patterns offer a surprise, while their meaning is
muted.
E S S AY S / 205
IX
Just as semantic correspondences are weak in modern poetry, so
rhyme, as a euphonic correspondence, is only approximate
(similarities are experienced against a background of contrast).
As concerns the sound pattern of Xlebnikov's rhymes, and
indeed of rhyme in modern Russian poetry as a whole, the fol­
lowing features should be noted as characteristic:
1. Consonants have greater weight than vowels. This is true
of modern euphonic patterns in general.
2. The distinction between hard and palatalized consonants
is to a large extent lost for purposes of rhyme.
Vowels are characterized acoustically by variations in the
height of their basic tones; similarly the distinction between
palatalized and unpalatalized consonants is in their basic tone.
Thus it would seem that the evolution of poetic euphony par­
allels the evolution of modern music: the development has been
from emphasis on tone, in the direction of emphasis on sound.
3. Poets of the Pushkin school focused primarily upon the
final sounds in making their rhymes, while modern poetry gives
more importance to supporting sounds; agreement of the final
sounds is not obligatory.
4. Consonants are not necessarily identical, but need only be
similar in their acoustic effect.
5. The order of consonants in the rhyming words need not
be identical (rhyme-metathesis is possible).
6. Accents i n the rhyming words need not be identical.
206 / MY F U T U RI S T YEARS
Xlebnikov to some extent "lays bare" the repetition of conso­
nant sounds: often enough the word combinations that form
the repetition have practically no logical justification:
Polna soblazna i bela (Full of temptation and white)
Ona zabyla pro belila (She forgot about the whiting).
[There follow a number of examples of sound repetition for
its own sake from Pushkin, from Xlebnikov, and from popu­
lar jingles.]
Many examples could be given which show that in the poet­
ry ofXlebnikov meaning is reduced in importance and euphon­
ic constructions are created for their own sake. From this point
it is only a step to the creation of a completely arbitrary lan­
guage. As Xlebnikov put it,
My first idea in dealing with language is to find . . . a touch­
stone for the transformation of all Slavic words one into
another, for the free fusion of all Slavic words. Such is the
selfsome word without relation to life or use. And seeing
that all roots are simply phantoms behind which stand the
living strings of the alphabet, the discovery of the general
unity of all world languages, built out of the units of the
alphabet-such is my second purpose. This is the way to the
discovery of a worldwide trans-sense language.
Such arbitrary word-building may be associated
forms it uses with the Russian language:
Von tam na dorozhke belyj vstal i stoit
vidennega
Vecher Ii derevo l ' prixot ' moja?
Ax, pozvol'te mne eto slovo v vide negi.
m
the
E S S AY S / 207
Words of this type are as it were seeking a meaning for
themselves. Here it is perhaps mistaken to speak of the com­
plete absence of semantic sense. Such a word is rather an
example of a negative internal form, as, for example, (accord­
ing to Fortunatov30) the nominative case dom (where there is a
zero case ending) is a word with negative external form.
The second type of arbitrary word-building avoids any cor­
relation with a given poetic language. This is the case for
example with the "talking in tongues" of religious sectarians:
the creators of such speech believe that their words are related
to foreign tongues. Xlebnikov's "trans-sense" (zaumnye) words
are motivated by the idea, for example that they are written in
bird language ( Wisdom in a Snare), apes' language ("Ka"),
demons' language (A Night in Galicia).
Even the motivation itself may be "trans-sense" in nature:
Bobeobi sang the lips
Bobeobi pelis' guby
Veeomi sang the eyes
Veeomi pelis' vzory
Lieeei sang the visage
Lieeei pelsja oblik
Gzi-gzi-gzeo sang the chain
Gzi-gzi gzeo pelas ' tsep '
Thus on the canvas of certain
Tak na xolste kakix-to
correspondences
Without extension lived the face
sootvetstvij
Vne protjazhenija zhilo lico.
We have seen in a number of examples how the word in
Xlebnikov's poetry loses its concrete content and even loses its
inner and finally even its outward form. It has been observed
many times in the history of the poetry of all peoples and coun­
tries that, as Trediakovskij31 put it, for the poet "only sound" is
important. The language of poetry strives to reach, as a final
limit, the phonetic, or rather-to the extent that such a purpose
may be present-the euphonic phrase-in other words, a trans­
se nse speedl.
208 / MY F U TU RI S T YEARS
But concerning the limit of this striving Xlebnikov charac­
teristically remarks: "When I wrote the words of Ikhnaton
before his death, 'manch, manch,' they produced on me an
unbearable effect. Now I hardly feel them anymore. I don't
know why."
TRANSLATED BY E.]. BROWN
E S S AYS I 209
ON A GENERATION THAT
S QUANDERED ITS POETS
Killed;Little matter
Whether I or he
Killed them.
Majakovskij's poetry-his imagery, his lyrical composition-I
have written about these things and published some of my
remarks. The idea of writing a monograph has never left me.
Majakovskij's poetry is qualitatively different from everything
in Russian verse before him, however intent one may be on
establishing genetic links. This is what makes the subject par­
ticularly intriguing. The structure of his poetry is profoundly
original and revolutionary. But how is it possible to write about
Majakovskij's poetry now, when the paramount subject is not
the rhythm but the death of the poet, when (if I may resort to
Majakovskij's own poetic phrase) "sudden grief" is not yet ready
to give in to "a clearly realized pain" ?
During one of our meetings, Majakovskij, as was his cus­
tom, read me his latest poems. Considering his creative poten­
tial I could not help comparing them with what he might have
produced. "Very �ood," I said, "but not as good as Majakovskij."
Yet now thl' crea t i ve powers are canceled out, the inimitable
2 10 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
stanzas can no longer be compared to anything else, the words
"Majakovskij's latest poems" have suddenly taken on a tragic
meaning. Sheer grief at his absence has overshadowed the
absent one. Now it is more painful, but still easier, to write not
about the one we have lost but rather about our own loss and
those of us who have suffered it.
It is our generation that has suffered the loss. Roughly, those
of us who are now between thirty and forty-five years old.
Those who, already fully matured, entered into the years of the
Revolution not as unmolded clay but still not hardened, still
capable of adapting to experience and change, still capable of
taking a dynamic rather than a static view of our lives.
It has been said more than once that the first poetic love of
our generation was Aleksandr Blok. Velimir Xlebnikov gave us
a new epos, the first genuinely epic creations after many
decades of drought. Even his briefer verses create the impres­
sion of epic fragments, and Xlebnikov easily combined them
into narrative poems. Xlebnikov is epic in spite of our antiepic
times, and therein lies one of the reasons he is somewhat alien
to the average reader. Other poets brought his poetry closer to
the reader; they drew upon Xlebnikov, pouring out his "word
ocean" into many lyrical streamlets. In contrast to Xlebnikov,
Majakovskij embodied the lyrical urges of this generation.
"The broad epic canvas" is deeply alien to him and unaccept­
able. Even when he attempts "a bloody Iliad of the Revolution,"
or "an Odyssey of the famine years," what appears is not an epic
but a heroic lyric on a grand scale, offered "at the top of his
voice." There was a point when Symbolist poetry was in its
decline and it was still not clear which of the two new mutual­
ly antagonistic trends, Acmeism or Futurism, would prevail.
Xlebnikov and Majakovskij gave to Contemporary literary art
its leitmotif. The name Gumilev marks a collateral branch of
E S S AY S / 2 1 1
modern Russian poetry-its characteristic overtone. For
Xlebnikov and for Majakovskij "the homeland of creative poet­
ry is the future"; in contrast, Esenin is a lyrical glance back­
ward. His verse expresses the weariness of a generation.
Modern Russian poetry after 1910 is largely defined by
these names. The verse of Aseev and Sel 'vinskijl is bright
indeed, but it is a reflected light. They do not announce but
reflect the spirit of the times. Their magnitude is a derivative
quantity. Pasternak's books and perhaps those ofMandel'shtam
are remarkable, but theirs is chamber verse:2 new creation will
not be kindled by it. The heart of a generation cannot take fire
with such verses because they do not shatter the boundaries of
the present.
Gumilev (1886-192 1) was shot, after prolonged mental
agony and in great pain; Blok (1880-1921) died, amid cruel
privations and under circumstances of inhuman suffering;
Xlebnikov (1885-1922) passed away; after careful planning
Esenin (1 895-1925) and Majakovskij (1894-1930) killed
themselves. And so it happened that during the third decade of
this century, those who inspired a generation perished between
the ages of thirty and forty, each of them sharing a sense of
doom so vivid and sustained that it became unbearable.
This is true not only of those who were killed or killed
themselves. Blok and Xlebnikov, when they took to their beds
with disease, had also perished. Zamjatin wrote in his reminis­
cences: "We are all to blame for this . . . I remember that I could
not stand it and I phoned Gor'kij: Blok is dead. We can't be
forgiven for that." Shklovskij wrote in a tribute to Xlebnikov:
Forgive us for yourself and for others whom we will kill. The
state is nor responsible for the destruction of people. When
Christ l ived and spoke the state did not understand his
2 12 / MY F UT U R I S T YEARS
Aramaic, and it has never understood simple human speech.
The Roman soldiers who pierced Christ's hands are no more
to blame than the nails. Nevertheless, it is very painful for
those whom they crucify.3
Blok the poet fell silent and died long before the man, but his
younger contemporaries snatched verses even from death.
("Wherever I die I'll die singing," wrote Majakovskij.) Xlebnikov
knew he was dying. His body decomposed while he lived. He
asked for flowers in his room so that the stench would not be
noticed, and he kept writing to the end. A day before his sui­
cide Esenin wrote a masterful poem about his impending
death. Majakovskij's farewell letter is full of poetry: we find the
professional writer in every line of that document. He wrote it
two nights before his death and in the interval there were to be
conversations and conferences about the everyday business of
literature; but in that letter we read: "Please don't gossip. The
deceased hated gossip." We remember that Majakovskij's long­
standing demand upon himself was that the poet must "hurry
time forward." And here he is, already looking at his suicide
note through the eyes of someone reading it the day after
tomorrow. The letter, with its several literary motifs and with
Majakovskij's own death in it, is so closely interrelated with his
poetry that it can be understood only in the context of that
poetry.
The poetry of Majakovskij from his first verses, in A Slap in
the Face ofPublic Taste, to his last lines is one and indivisible. It
represents the dialectical development of a single theme. It is an
extraordinarily unified symbolic system. A symbol once thrown
out only as a kind of hint will later be developed and presented
i? a totally new perspective. He himself underlines these links
in his verse by alluding to earlier works. In the poem About
That, for instance, he recalls certain lines from the poem Man,
E S S AY S / 2 13
written several years earlier, and in the latter poem he refers to
lyrics of an even earlier period. An image at first offered
humorously may later and in a different context lose its comic
effect, or conversely, a motif developed solemnly may be repeat­
ed in a parodistic vein. yet this does not mean that the beliefs
of yesterday are necessarily held up to scorn; rather, we have
here two levels, the tragic and the comic, of a single symbolic
system, as in the medieval theater. A single clear purpose
directs the system of symbols. "We shall thunder out a new
myth upon the world."
A mythology of Majakovskij?
His first collection of poems was entitled 1. Vladimir
Majakovskij is not only the hero of his first play, but his name is
the title of that tragedy, as well as of his last collection of poems.
The author dedicates his verse "to his beloved self." When
Majakovskij was working on the poem Man he said, "I want to
depict simply man, man in general, not an abstraction, a la
Andreev,4 but a genuine 'Ivan' who waves his arms, eats cabbage
soup, and can be directly felt." But Majakovskij could directly
feel only himself This is said very well in Trockij's article on him
(an intelligent article, the poet said): "In order to raise man he
elevates him to the level of Majakovskij. The Greeks were
anthropomorphists, naively likening the forces of nature to
themselves; our poet is a Majakomorphist, and he populates the
squares, the streets, and the fields of the Revolution only with
himsel£" Even when the hero of Majakovskij's poem appears as
the 150-million-member collective, realized in one Ivan-a fan­
tastic epic hero-the latter in turn assumes the familiar features
of the poet's "ego." This ego asserts itself even more frankly in
the rough drafts of the poem.s
Empirical reality neither exhausts nor fully takes in the var­
ious shapes of the poet's ego. Majakovskij passes before us in
2 14 I MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
one of his "innumerable souls." "The unbending spirit of eter­
nal rebellion" has poured itself into the poet's muscles, the irre­
sponsible spirit without name or patronymic, "from future days,
just a man." ''And I feel that I am too small for myself Someone
obstinately bursts out of me." Weariness with fIxed and narrow
confInes, the urge to transcend static boundaries-such is
Majakovskij's infInitely varied theme. No lair in the world can
contain the poet and the unruly horde of his desires. "Driven
into the earthly pen I drag a daily yoke." "The accursed earth
has me chained." The grief of Peter the Great is that of a "pris­
oner, held in chains in his own city." Hulks of districts wriggle
out of the "zones marked off by the governor." The cage of the
blockade in Majakovskij's verses turns into the world prison
destroyed by a cosmic gust directed "beyond the radiant slits of
sunsets." The poet's revolutionary call is directed at all of those
"for whom life is cramped and unbearable," "who cry out
because the nooses of noon are too tight." The ego of the poet
is a battering ram, thudding into a forbidden Future; it is a
mighty will "hurled over the last limit" toward the incarnation
of the Future, toward an absolute fullness of being: "one must
rip joy from the days yet to come."
Opposed to this creative urge toward a transformed future is
the stabilizing force of an immutable present, overlaid, as this
present is, by a stagnating slime, which stifles life in its tight,
hard mold. The Russian name for this element is byt.6 It is
curious that this word and its derivatives should have such a
prominent place in the Russian language (from which it spread
even to the Komi),? while West European languages have no
word that corresponds to it. Perhaps the reason is that in the
EJlropean collective consciousness there is no concept of such a
force as might oppose and break down the established norms of
life. The revolt of the individual against the fIxed forms of
E S SAYS / 2 15
social convention presupposes the existence of such a force. The
real antithesis of byt is a slippage of social norms that is imme­
diately sensed by those involved in social life. In Russia this
sense of an unstable foundation has been present for a very long
time, and not just as a historical generalization but as a direct
experience. We recall that in the early nineteenth century, dur­
ing the time of Chaadaev, there was the sense of a "dead and
stagnant life," but at the same time a feelirg of instability and
uncertainty: "Everything is slipping away, everything is pass­
ing," wrote Chaadaev.8 "In our own homes we are as it were in
temporary quarters. In our family life we seem foreigners. In
our cities we look like nomads." And as Majakovskij put it:
. . . laws/ concepts/ faiths
The granite blocks of cities
And even the very sun's reliable glow­
Everything had become as it were fluid,
Seemed to be sliding a littleA little bit thinned and watered down.
But all these shifts, all this "leaking of the poet's room," are only
a "hardly audible draft, which is probably only felt by the very
tip of the soul." Inertia continues to reign. It is the poet's pri­
mordial enemy, and he never tires of returning to this theme.
"Motionless byt." "Everything stands as it has been for ages. Byt
is like a horse that can't be spurred and stands still." "Slits of byt
are filled with fat and coagulate, quiet and wide." "The swamp
of byt is covered over with slime and weeds." "Old little byt is
moldy." "The giant byt crawls everywhere through the holes."
"Force booming byt to sing!" "Put the question of byt on the
agenda." "In fall,! winter,! spring,! summer/ During the day/
du r i n g slee p/ I don't accept/ I hate this/ all.! All that in us/ is
hammert'd i n hy past sl avi sh ness/ all/ that like the swarm of
2 16 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
trifles/ was covering/ and covered with byt! even our red­
flagged ranks." Only in the poem About That is the poet's des­
perate struggle with byt fully laid bare. There it is not personi­
fied as it is elsewhere in his work. On the contrary, the poet
hammers his verbal attack directly into that moribund byt
which he despises. And byt reacts by executing the rebel "with
all rifles and batteries, from every Mauser and Browning."
Elsewhere in Majakovskij this phenomenon is, as we have
said, personified-not however as a living person but rather,
in the poet's own phrase, as an animated tendency. In Man,
the poet's enemy is very broadly generalized as "Ruler of all,
my rival, my invincible enemy." But it is also possible to local­
ize this enemy and give him a particular shape. One may call
him "Wilson," domicile him in Chicago, and, in the language
of fairytale hyperbole, outline his very portrait (as in
150, 000, 000). But then the poet offers a "little footnote":
"Those who draw the Wilsons, Lloyd Georges, and
Clemenceaus sometimes show their mugs with moustaches,
sometimes not; but that's beside the point since they're all one
and the same thing." The enemy is a universal image. The
forces of nature, people, metaphysical substances, are only its
incidental aspects and disguises: "The same old bald fellow
directs us unseen, the master of the earthly cancan.
Sometimes in the shape of an idea, sometimes a kind of devil,
or then again he glows as God, hidden behind a cloud." If we
should try to translate the Majakovskian mythology into the
language of speculative philosophy, the exact equivalent for
this enmity would be the antinomy "I" versus "not-1." A bet­
ter designation for Majakovskij's enemy could hardly be
found.
, Just as the creative. ego of the poet is not coextensive with his
actually existing self, so conversely the latter does not take in all
ESSAYS / 2 1 7
of the former. In the faceless regiment of his acquaintances, all
tangled in the "apartment-house spider web, "
One of them! I recognized
As like as a twin
Myself! my very own self
This terrible "double" of the poet is his conventional and
commonplace "self," the purchaser and owner whom Xlebnikov
once contrasted with the inventor and discoverer. That self has
an emotional attachment to a securely selfish and stable life, to
"my little place, and a household that's mine, with my little pic­
ture on the wall." The poet is oppressed by the specter of an
unchangeable world order, a universal apartment-house byt :
"No sound, the universe is asleep."
Revolutions shake up violently the bodies of kingdoms,
The human herd changes its herdsman.
But you! uncrowned ruler of our hearts
No rebellion ever touches.
Against this unbearable might of byt an upnsmg as yet
unheard of and nameless must be contrived.The terms used in
speaking of the class struggle are only conventional figures,
only approximate symbols, only one of the levels: the partfor the
whole. Majakovskij, who has witnessed "the sudden reversals of
fortune in battles not yet fought," must give new meaning to
the habitual terminology. In the rough draft of the poem
150,000,000 we find the following definitions:
To be a bourgeois does not mean to own capital or squan­
der gold. It means to be the heel of a corpse on the throat
of the young. It means a mouth stopped up with fat. To be
a prok·tarian dOl'sn't mean to have a dirty face and work in
218 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
a factory: it means to be in love with the future that's going
to explode the filth of the cellars-believe me.
The basic fusion of Majakovskij's poetry with the theme of
the revolution has often been pointed out. But another indis­
soluble combination of motifs in the poet's work has not so far
been noticed: revolution and the destruction of the poet.This
idea is suggested even as early as the Tragedy (1913), and later
this fact that the linkage of the two is not accidental becomes
"clear to the point of hallucination." No mercy will be shown to
the army of zealots, or to the doomed volunteers in the strug­
gle. The poet himself is an expiatory offering in the name of
that universal and real resurrection that is to come; that was the
theme of the poem War and the World. And in the poem A
Cloud in Trousers, the poet promises that when a certain year
comes "in the thorny crown" of revolutions, "For youl I will tear
out my soul! and trample on it till it spreads out,! and I'll give
it to you,! a bloody banner." In the poems written after the rev­
olution the same idea is there, but in the past tense.The poet,
mobilized by the revolution, has "stamped on the throat of his
own song." (This line occurs in the last poem he published, an
address to his "comrade-descendants" of the future, written in
clear awareness of the coming end.) In the poem About That,
the poet is destroyed by byt. "The bloodletting is over.... Only
high above the Kremlin the tatters of the poet shine in the
wind-a little red flag." This image is plainly an echo of A
Cloud in Trousers.
The poet's hungry ear captures the music of the future, but
he is not destined to enter the Promised Land. A vision of the
future is present in all the most essential pages of Majakovskij's
work. "And such a day dawned-Andersen's fairytales crawled
about like little pups at his feet"; "You can't tell whether it's air,
ESSAys/ 2 1 9
or a flower, or a bird. It sings, and it's fragrant, and it's bright­
ly colored all at once"; "Call us Cain or call us Abel, it doesn't
matter. The future is here. " For Majakovskij the future is a
dialectical synthesis.The removal of all contradictions finds its
expression in the facetious image of Christ playing checkers
with Cain, in the myth of the universe permeated by love, and
in the proposition "The commune is a place where bureaucrats
will disappear and there will be many poems and songs." The
present disharmony, the contradiction between poetry and
building, "the delicate business of the poet's place in the work­
ing ranks, " is one of Maj akovskij's most acute problems.
"Why, " he asked, "should literature occupy its own special lit­
de corner? Either it should appear in every newspaper, every
day, on every page, or else it's totally useless.The kind of liter­
ature that's dished out as dessert can go to hell" (from the
Reminiscences of D. Lebedev).
Majakovskij always regarded ironically talk of the insignif­
icance and death of poetry (really nonsense, he would say, but
useful for the purpose of revolutionizing art). He planned to
pose the question of the future of art in the "Fifth International,"
a poem that he worked on long and carefully but never fin­
ished. According to the outline of the work, the first stage of
the revolution, a worldwide social transformation, has been
completed, but humanity is bored. Byt still survives. So a new
revolutionary act of world-shaking proportions is required: ''A
revolution of the spirit " in the name of a new organization of
life, a new art, and a new science.The published introduction
to the poem is an order to abolish the beauties of verse and to
introduce into poetry the brevity and accuracy of mathematical
formulas. He offers an example of a poetic structure built on
. the model of a logical problem.When I reacted skeptically to
this poetic p rogram-the exhortation in verse against verse-
2 20 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
Majakovskij smiled: "But didn't you notice that the solution of
my logical problem is a transrational solution?"
The remarkable poem "Homeward! " is devoted to the con­
tradiction between the rational and the irrational. It is a dream
about the fusion of the two elements, a kind of rationalization
of the irrational:
I feel like a Soviet factory
Manufacturing happiness.
I don't want/ to be plucked
Like a flower! after the day's work
I want! the heart to be paid
Its wage of love/ at the specialist's rate
I want! the factory committee
To put a lock on my lips
When the work is done
I want! the pen to be equal to the bayonet
And I want Stalin! to report in the name of the Politburo
About the production of verse
As he does about pig iron and steel.
Thus, and so it is/ we've reached
The topmost level! up from the worker's hovels
In the Union! of Republics
The appreciation of verse/ has exceeded the prewar level.
The idea of the acceptance of the irrational appears m
Majakovskij's work in various guises, and each of the images he
uses for this purpose tends to reappear in his poetry. The stars
("You know, if they light up the stars,! that means, somebody
needs them! "). The madness of spring ("Everything is clear
concerning bread! and concerning peace.! But the prime ques­
tion,! the question of spring/ must bel elucidated"). And the
h�art that changes wi�ter to spring and water to wine ("It's that
I'm/ going to raise my heart like a flag,! a marvelous twentieth-
ESSAYS / 2 2 1
century miracle").And that hostile answer of the enemy in the
poem Man: "If the heart is everything! then why,! why have I
been gathering you, my dear money!! How do they dare to
sing?! W ho gave them the right?! W ho said the days could
blossom into July?! Lock the heavens in wires!! Twist the earth
into streets! "
But Majakovskij 's central irrational theme is the theme of
love. It is a theme that cruelly punishes those who dare to for­
get it, whose storms toss us about violendy and push everything
else out of our ken. And like poetry itself this theme is both
inseparable from and in disharmony with our present life; it is
"closely mingled with our jobs, our incomes, and all the rest."
And love is crushed by byt:
Omnipotent one
You thought up a pair of hands
Fixed it
So that everyone has a head.
Why couldn't you fIx it
So that without torment
We could just kiss and kiss and kiss?
Eliminate the irrational? Majakovskij draws a bitterly satir­
ical picture. On the one hand, the heavy boredom of certain
rational revelations: the usefulness of the cooperative, the dan­
ger of liquor, political education, and on the other hand, an
unashamed hooligan of planetary dimensions (in the poem ''A
Type"). Here we have a satirical sharpening of the dialectical
contradiction. Majakovskij says "yes" to the rationalization of
production, technology, and the planned economy if as a result
of all this "the partially opened eye of the future sparkles with
real earthly love." But he rejects it all if it means only a selfish
clutching at the present. If that's the case then grandiose tech-
2 2 2 / M Y FUTURIST YEARS
nology becomes only a "highly perfected apparatus of
parochialism and gossip on the worldwide scale " (from an essay
"My Discovery of America"). Just such a planetary narrowness
and parochialism permeates life in the year 1970, as shown in
Maj akovskij 's play about the future, The Bedbug, where we see a
rational organization without emotion, with no superfluous
expenditure of energy, without dreams. A worldwide social rev­
olution has been achieved, but the revolution of the spirit is still
in the future. The play is a quiet protest against the spiritual
inheritors of those languid j udges who, in his early satirical
poem "without knowing just why or wherefore, attacked Peru."
Some of the characters in The Bedbug have a close affinity with
the world of Zamjatin's We, although Maj akovskij bitterly
ridicules not only the rational utopian community but the
rebe11ion against it in the name of alcohol, the irrational and
unregulated individual happiness. Zamjatin, however, idealizes
that rebe11ion.
Majakovskij has an unshakable faith that, beyond the
mountain of suffering, beyond each rising plateau of revolu­
tions, there does exist the "real heaven on earth, " the only pos­
sible resolution of a11 contradictions. Byt is only a surrogate for
the coming synthesis; it doesn't remove contradictions but only
conceals them. The poet is unwi11ing to compromise with the
dialectic; he rej ects any mechanical softening of the contradi­
tions. The objects of Majakovskij's unsparing sarcasm are the
"compromisers " (as in the play Mystery-Bouffe). Among the
ga11ery of "bureaucrat-compromisers " portrayed in his agita­
tional pieces, we have in The Bathhouse the Glavnachpups
Pobedonosikov, whose very title is an acronym for "Chief
Administrator for the,Organizing of Compromises. " Obstacles
in the road to the future-such is the true nature of these "arti­
ficial people." The time machine will surely spew them out.
ESSAYS / 2 2 3
It seemed to him a criminal illusion to suppose that the essen­
tial and vital problem of building a worldwide "wonderful life"
could be put aside for the sake of devising some kind of per­
sonal happiness. "It's early to rejoice, " he wrote. The opening
scenes of The Bedbug develop the idea that people are tired of a
life full of struggle, tired of frontline equality, tired of military
metaphors. "This is not 1919. People want to live." They build
family nests for themselves: "Roses will bloom and be fragrant
at the present juncture of time." "Such is the elegant fulfillment
of our comrade's life of struggle." Oleg Bajan, the servant of
beauty in The Bedbug, formulates this sentiment in the follow­
ing words: "We have managed to compromise and control class
and other contradictions, and in this a person armed with a
Marxist eye, so to speak, can't help seeing, as in a single drop of
water, the future happiness of mankind, which the common
people call socialism." (In an earlier, lyrical context the same
idea took this form: "There he is in a soft bed, fruit beside him
and wine on the night table." ) Majakovskij's sharply chiseled
lines express unlimited contempt for all those who seek com­
fort and rest. All such people receive their answer from the
mechanic in The Bedbug: "We' ll never crawl out of our trench­
es with a white flag in our hands." And the poem About That
develops the same theme in the form of an intimate personal
experience. In that work Majakovskij begs for the advent of
love, his savior: "Confiscate my pain-take it away!" And
Majakovskij answers himself:
Leave off.! Don't! not a word/ no requests,
What's the point! that you/ alone/ should succeed?
I'll wait/ and together with the whole unloved earth
With the whole/ human mass/ we'll win it.
Seven years I stood/ and I ' ll stand two hundred
Nailed herd wailing tilr it.
2 24
I
MY FUTURIST YEARS
On the bridge of years/ derided! scorned
A redeemer of earthly love/ I must stand
Stand for all! for everyone I'll atone
For everyone I'll weep.
But Majakovskij knows very well that even if his youth
should be renewed four times and he should four times grow
old again, that would only mean a fourfold increase of his tor­
ment, a four times multiplied horror at the senseless daily grind
and at premature celebrations of victory. In any case, he will
never live to see the revelation all over the world of an absolute
fullness of life, and the final count still stands: "I've not lived
out my earthly lot; I've not lived through my earthly love." His
destiny is to be an expiatory victim who never knew joy:
A bullet for the rest
For some a knife.
But what about me?
And when?
Majakovskij has now given us the final answer to that question.
The Russian Futurists believed in cutting themselves loose
from the "classic generals, " and yet they are vitally tied to the
Russian literary tradition. It is interesting to note that famous
line of Maj akovskij 's, so full of bravado (and at the same time a
tactical slogan): "But why don't we attack Pushkin?" It was fol­
lowed n9t long after by those mournful lines addressed to the
same Pushkin: "You know I too will soon be dead and mute'!
And after my death/ we two will be quite close together."
Majakovskij's dreams of the future that repeat the utopian
visions of Dostoevskij's Versilov in A Raw Youth, the poet's fre­
quent hymns to the "�an-god," the "thirteenth apostle's" fight
against God, the ethical rejection of Him-all this is much
closer to Russian literature of an earlier day than it is to official
ESSAYS / 2 2 5
and regimented Soviet "godlessness." And Majakovskij 's belief
in personal immortality has nothing to do with the official cat­
echism of Jaroslavskij's "godless" movement. The poet's vision
of the coming resurrection of the dead is vitally linked with the
materialistic mysticism of the Russian philosopher Fedorov.
When in the spring of 1920 I returned to Moscow, which
was tightly blockaded, I brought with me recent books and
information about scientific developments in the West.
Majakovskij made me repeat several times my somewhat con­
fused remarks on the general theory of relativity and about the
growing interest in that concept in Western Europe.The idea
of the liberation of energy, the problem of the time dimension,
and the idea that movement at the speed of light may actually
be a reverse movement in time-all these things fascinated
Majakovskij. I'd seldom seen him so interested and attentive.
"Don't you think, " he suddenly asked, "that we'll at last achieve
immortality?" I was astonished, and I mumbled a skeptical
comment. He thrust his jaw forward with that hypnotic insis­
tence so familiar to anyone who knew Majakovskij well: "I'm
absolutely convinced, " he said, "that one day there will be no
more death. And the dead will be resurrected. I've got to find
some scientist who' ll give me a precise account of what's in
Einstein's books.It's out of the question that I shouldn't under­
stand it. I'll see to it that this scientist receives an academician's
ration." At that point I became aware of a Majakovskij that I'd
never known before. The demand for victory over death had
taken hold of him.He told me later that he was writing a poem
called "The Fourth International" (he afterward changed it to
"The Fifth International") that would deal with such things.
"Einstein will be a member of that International. The poem
will be much more important than 150,000,000." Majakovskij
was at the time obsessed with the idea of sending Einstein a
2 2 6 / M Y FUTURIST YEARS
congratulatory telegram "from the art of the future to the sci­
ence of the future." We never again returned to this matter in
our conversations, and he never finished "The Fifth
International." But in the epilogue to About That, we find the
lines: "I see it, I see it clearly to the last sharp detail . . . on the
bright eminence of time, impervious to rot or destruction, the
workshop of human resurrection."
''A
The epilogue to About That carries the following heading:
request addressed to .. . (Please, comrade chemist, fill in the
name yourse1f )." I haven't the slightest doubt that for
Majakovskij this was not just a literary device but a genuine and
seriously offered request to some "quiet chemist with a domed
forehead" living in the thirtieth century:
Resurrect me!
Even if only because I was a poet
And waited for you.
And put behind me prosaic nonsense.
Resurrect meJust for that!
Do resurrect mel want to live it all out.
The very same "Institute for Human Resurrections" reappears
in the play The Bedbug but in a comic context.It is the insistent
theme of Majakovskij's last writings. Consider the situation in
The Bathhouse. "A phosphorescent woman out of the future,
empowered to select the best people for the future age appears
in the time machine: At the first signal we blast off, and smash
through old decrepit time. . . . Winged time will sweep away
and cut loose the ballast, heavy with rubbish and ruined by lack
,of faith." Once again we see that the pledge of resurrection is
faith. Moreover, the people of the future must transform not
only their own future, but also the past: "The fence of time/ our
ESSAYS / 2 2 7
feet will trample.... As it has been written b y us,! so will the
world bel on Wednesday,! in the past! and now/ and tomor­
row/ and forever" (from 150,000,000). The poem written in
memory of Lenin offers the same idea, yet in disguised form:
Death will never dare
To touch him.
He stands
In the total sum of what's to be!
The young attend
To these verses on his death
But their hearts know
That he's deathless.
In Majakovskij's earliest writings personal immortality is
achieved in spite of science. "You students," he says, "all the
stuff we know and study is rubbish. Physics, astronomy, and
chemistry are all nonsense" (from the poem Man). At that time
he regarded science as an idle occupation involving only the
extraction of square roots or a kind of inhuman collection of
fossilized fragments of the summer before last. His satirical
"Hymn to the Scholar" became a genuine and fervent hymn
only when he thought he had found the miraculous instrument
of human resurrection in Einstein's "futuristic brain" and in the
physics and chemistry of the future. "Like logs thrown into a
boom we are thown at birth into the Volga of human time; we
toss about as we float downstream. But from now on that great
river shall be submissive to us. I'll make time stand still, move
in another direction and at a new rate of speed. People will be
able to get out of the day like passengers getting out of a bus."
Whatever the means of achieving immortality, the vision of it
in Majakovskij's verse is unchangeable: there can be no resur­
rection of the spirit without the body, without the flesh itself.
2 2 8 / MY FUTURIST Y EARS
Immortality has nothing to with any other world; it is indissol­
ubly tied to this one. "I'm all for the heart," he wrote in Man,
"but how can bodiless beings have a heart?/ . . . My eyes fixed
earthward ... / This herd of the bodiless,! how they/ bore me!"
"We want to live here on earth-/ no higher and no lower"
(Mystery-Bouffe). "With the last measure of my heart! I believe/
in this life,! in this world,! in all of it " (About That).
Majakovskij's dream is of an everlasting earth, and this earth is
placed in sharp opposition to all superterrestrial, fleshless
abstractions. In his poetry and in Xlebnikov's the theme of
earthly life is presented in a coarse, physical incarnation (they
even talk about the "flesh" rather than the body). An extreme
expression of this is the cult of tender feeling for the beast with
his beasdy wisdom.
"They will arise from the mounds of graves/ and their
buried bones will grow flesh" (War and the World), wrote
Majakovskij. And those lines are not just present simply as a
poetic device that motivates the whimsical interweaving of two
separate narrative levels. On the contrary-that vision is
Majakovskij's most cherished poetic myth.
This constant infatuation with a wonderful future is linked
in Majakovskij with a pronounced dislike of children, a fact
that would seem at first sight to be hardly consonant with his
fanatical belief in tomorrow. But j ust as we find in Dostoevskij
an obtI'\lsive and neurotic "father hatred" linked with great ven­
eration for ancestors and reverence for tradition, so in
Majakovskij's spiritual world an abstract faith in the coming
transformation of the world is j oined quite properly with
hatred for the evil continuum of specific tomorrows that only
prolong today (lithe <?alendar is nothing but the calendar!") and
with undying hostility to that "brood-hen" love that serves only
to reproduce the present way of life. Majakovskij was indeed
ESSAYS / 2 2 9
capable of giving full due t o the creative mission o f those "kids
of the collective" in their unending quarrel with the old world,
but at the same time he bristled whenever an actual "kid" ran
into the room. Majakovskij never recognized his own myth of
the future in any concrete child; these he regarded simply as
new offshoots of the hydraheaded enemy.That is why we find
in the marvelous movie scenario How Are You? childlike
grotesques, which are the legitimate offspring of the Manilov
pair Alcides and Themistoclus in Gogol"s Dead Souls. We
recall that his youthful poem ''A Few Words about Myself "
begins with the line "I love to watch children dying." And in
the same poem child-murder is elevated to a cosmic theme:
"Sun!! My father!! At least you have pity and torment me not!/
That's my blood you shed flowing along this low road." And
surrounded by that very aura of sunshine, the same "child com­
plex" appears as both an immemorial and personal motif in the
poem War and the World:
ListenThe sun just shed his first rays
not yet knowing
where he'll go when he's done his day's work;
and that's me
Majakovskij,
Bringing as sacrifice to the ido1's pedestal
a beheaded infant.
There's no doubt that in Majakovskij the theme of child­
murder and suicide are closely linked: these are simply two dif­
ferent ways of depriving the present of its immediate succes­
sion, of "tearing through decrepit time."
Majakovskij's conception of the poet's role is clearly bound
up with his hc1icf in the possibility of conquering time and
2 3 0 / M Y FUTURIST YEARS
breaking its steady, slow step. He did not regard poetry as a
mechanical superstructure added to the ready-made base of
existence (it is no accident that he was so close to the Formalist
literary critics). A genuine poet is not one "who feeds in the
calm pastures of everyday life; his mug is not pointed at the
ground." "The weak ones simply beat time and wait for some­
thing to happen that they can echo; but the powerful rush far
enough ahead so as to drag time along behind them!"
Majakovskij's recurrent image of the poet is one who overtakes
time, and we may say that this is the actual likeness of
Majakovskij himself Xlebnikov and Majakovskij accurately
forecast the Revolution (including the date); that is only a
detail, but a rather important one. It would seem that never
until our day has the writer's fate been laid bare with such piti­
less candor in his own words. Impatient to know life, he recog­
nizes it in his own story. The "God-seeker" Blok and the
Marxist Majakovskij both understood clearly that verses are
dictated to the poet by some primordial, mysterious force. "We
know not whence comes the basic beat of rhythm." We don't
even know where this rhythm is located: "outside of me or
within me? But most likely within me." The poet himself sens­
es the necessity of his own verse, and his contemporaries feel
that the poet's destiny is no accident. Is there any one of us who
doesn't share the impression that the poet's volumes are a kind
of scenario in which he plays out the story of his life? The poet
is the principal character, and subordinate parts are also includ­
ed; but the performers for these later roles are recruited as the
action develops and to the extent that the plot requires them.
The plot has been laid out ahead of time right down to the
details of the denouement.
The motif of suicide, so alien to the thematics of the
Futurist and "Left Front" groups, continually recurs in the work
ESSAYS / 2 3 1
of Majakovskij, from his earliest writings, where madmen hang
themselves in an unequal struggle with by! (the director, the
"man with two kisses " in the Tragedy), to the scenario How Are
You? in which a newspaper article about a girl's suicide induces
horror in the poet.And when he tells about a young commu­
nist who committed suicide he adds, "How like me that is.
Horrors!" He tries on, so to speak, all possible varieties of sui­
cide: "Rejoice now! He'll execute himself . . .The locomotive's
wheel will embrace my neck." "I'll run to the canal and there
stick my head in the water's grinning mug. . . ." "The heart
bursts for a bullet, the throat raves for a razor.... Beckons to
the water, leads to the roof 's slope. . . . Druggist, give me the
means to send my soul without any pain into the spacious
beyond."
A simple resume of Majakovskij's poetic autobiography
would be the following: the poet nurtured in his heart the
unparalleled anguish of the present generation.That is why his
verse is charged with hatred for the strongholds of the estab­
lished order, and in his own work he finds "the alphabet of
coming ages." Majakovskij's earliest and most characteristic
image is one in which he "goes out through the city leaving his
soul on the spears of houses, shred by shred." The hopelessness
of his lonely struggle with the daily routine became clearer to
him at every turn.The brand of martyrdom is burned into him.
There's no way to win an early victory.The poet is the doomed
"outcast of the present."
Mama!
Tell my sisters, Ljuda and Olja,
That there's no way out.
Gradually the idea that "there's no way out " lost its purely lit­
erary character. From the poetic passage it found its way into
2 3 2 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
prose, and "there's no way out" turned up as an author's remark
in the margin of the manuscript for About That. And from that
prose context the same idea made its way into the poet's life; in
his suicide note he said: "Mama, sisters, comrades, forgive me.
This is not a good method (I don't recommend it to others), but
for me there's no other way out."
The act was long in preparation. Fifteen years earlier in a
prologue to a collection of poems, he wrote:
Often I think
Hadn't I better just
Let a bullet mark the period of my sentence.
Anyway, today I'm giving my farewell concert.
As time went on the theme of suicide became more and
more pressing. Majakovskij's most intense poems, Man (1916)
and About That (1923), are dedicated to it. Each of these works
is an ominous song of the victory of byt over the poet: their leit­
motif is "Love's boat has smashed against the daily grind" (a
line from his suicide note). The first poem is a detailed depic­
tion of Majakovskij's suicide. In the second there is already a
clear sense that the suicide theme transcends literature and is in
the realm of "literature of fact." Once again-but even more
disturbingly-the images of the first poem file past, the keenly
observed stages of existence: the "half-death" in the vortex of
the horrifyingly trivial, then the "final death"-"The lead in my
heart! Not even a shudder!" This theme of suicide had become
so real that it was out of the question to sketch the scene any­
more. It had to be exorcised. Propaganda pieces were necessary
in order to slow down the inexorable movement of that theme.
About That already ini�iates this long cycle of exorcism."I won't
give
them the satisfaction of seeing me dead of a bullet." "I
want to live on and on, moving through the years." The lines to
ESSAYS / 2 3 3
Sergej Esenin are the high point o f this cycle. According to
Majakovskij, the salubrious aim of the lines addressed to
Esenin was to neutralize the impact of Esenin's death poem.
But when you read them now, they sound even more sepulchral
than Esenin's last lines. Esenin's lines equate life and death, but
Majakovskij in his poem can only say about life that it's harder
than death. This is the same sort of doubtful propaganda for
life found in Majakovskij's earlier lines to the effect that only
disquiet about the afterlife is a restraint upon the bullet. Such,
too, are the farewell words in his suicide letter: "Stay happy
here."
In spite of all this the obituary writers vie with one another:
"One could expect anything of Majakovskij, but not that he
would kill himsel£" (E. Adamovich). And Lunacharskij: "The
idea of suicide is simply incompatible with our image of the
poet. " And Malkin: "His death cannot be reconciled with his
whole life, which was that of a poet completely dedicated to the
Revolution. " And the newspaper Pravda: "His death is just as
inconsistent with the life he led as it is unmotivated by his
poetry. " And A. Xalatov: "Such a death was hardly proper for
the Majakovskij we knew." Or Kol'cov: "It is not right for him.
Can it be that none of us knew Majakovskij? " Petr Pil'skij: "He
did not, of course, reveal any reason for us to expect such an
end. " And finally, the poet Demjan Bednyj: "Incredible! W hat
could he have lacked? "
Could these men of letters have forgotten or so misunder­
stood All That Majakovskij Composed?1O Or was there a general
conviction that all of it was only "composed, " only invented?
Sound literary criticism rejects any direct or immediate conclu­
sions about the biography of a poet when these are based mere­
ly on the evidence of his works, but it does not at all follow
from this that there is no connection whatsoever between the
234
I
MY FUTURIST YEARS
artist's biography and his art. Such an "antibiographical " posi­
tion would be the equivalent, in reverse, of the simplistic bio­
graphical approach. Have we forgotten Majakovskij's admira­
tion for the "genuine heroism and martyrdom" ofX1ebnikov, his
teacher? "His life, " wrote Majakovskij, "matched his brilliant
verbal constructs. That life is an example for poets and a
reproach to poetizers. " And it was Majakovskij who wrote that
even a poet's style of dress, even his intimate conversations with
his wife, should be determined by the whole of his poetic pro­
duction. He understood very well the close connection between
poetry and life.
Mter Esenin's suicide poem, said Majakovskij, his death
became a literary fact. "It was clear at once that those powerful
verses, just those verses, would bring to the bullet or the noose
many who had been hesitating." And when he approached the
writing of his own autobiography, Majakovskij remarked that
the facts of a poet's life are interesting "only if they became
fIxed in the word." W ho would dare assert that Majakovskij's
suicide was not fIxed in the word? "Don't gossip!" Majakovskij
adjured us just before his death. Yet those who stubbornly mark
out a strict boundary between the "purely personal " fate of the
poet and his literary biography create an atmosphere of low­
grade, highly personal gossip by means of those signifIcant
silences.
It is a historical fact that the people around Majakovskij
simply did not believe in his lyrical monologues. "They lis­
tened, all smiling, to the eminent clown. " They took his various
masquerades for the true face of the man: fIrst the pose of the
fop ("It's good when the soul is shielded from inspection by a
yellow blouse "); then the performance of an overeager journal­
ist and agitator: "It's good when you're in the teeth of the gal­
lows, to cry out: 'Drink Van Houten's cocoa' " (A Cloud in
ESSAYS / 2 3 5
Trousers). But then when he carried out that slogan in practice
in his advertising jingles ("Use the tea with the gold label!" "If
you want good luck and good fortune buy a government lottery
ticket!") his audience saw the rhymed advertisement but missed
the teeth of the gallows. As it turns out, it was easier to believe
in the benefits of a lottery ticket or the excellent quality of the
pacifiers sold in the state stores than it was to believe that the
poet had reached an extreme of despair, that he was in a state
of misery and near-death.About That is a long and hopeless cry
to the ages, but Moscow doesn't believe in tears.They stamped
and whistled at this routine Majakovskian artistic stunt, the lat­
est of his "magnificent absurdities, " but when the theatrical
cranberry juice of the puppet show became real, genuine, thick
blood, they were taken aback: Incredible! Inconsistent!
Majakovskij, as an act of self-preservation, often helped to
spread illusions about himself The record of a conversation we
had in 1927 demonstrates this. I said, "The total sum of possi­
ble experience has been measured out to us. We might have
predicted the early decline of our generation. But the symp­
toms of this are rapidly increasing in number.Take Aseev's line
What about us, what about us, can it be we've lost our youth?'
And consider Shklovskij's memorial service to himself1"
Majakovskij answered: "Utter nonsense. Everything is ahead of
me. If I ever thought that the best of me was in the past that
would be the end for me." I reminded him of a recent poem of
his in which the following lines occurred:
I
was born/ increased in size
fed from the bottleI lived! worked! grew oldish
And life will pass
As the Azores Islands
Once passed into the distance.
2 3 6 / MY FUTURIST Y EARS
"That's nothing," he said, "just a formal ending. An image
only. I can make as many of them as you like. My poem
'Homeward' in the first version ended with the lines:
I want my country to understand me
But if not-so what:
I'll just pass my country by
Like a slanting rain in summer.
But you know, Brik told me to strike those lines out because
they didn't go with the tone of the whole poem. So I struck
them out."
The simplistic Formalist literary credo professed by the
Russian Futurists inevitably propelled their poetry toward the
antithesis of Formalism-toward the cultivation of the heart's
"raw cry" and uninhibited frankness. Formalist literary theory
placed the lyrical monologue in quotes and disguised the "ego"
of the lyric poet under a pseudonym.But what unbounded hor­
ror results when suddenly you see through the pseudonym, and
the phantoms of art invade reality, just as in Majakovskij's sce­
nario Bound in Film a girl is kidnapped from a movie set by a
mad artist and lands in "real life."
Toward the end of his life, the satire and the laudatory ode
had completely overshadowed his elegiac verse, which, by the
way, he identified with the lyric in general. In the West the
exustence of this basic core in Majakovskij's poetry was not
even suspected. The West knew only the "drummer of the
October Revolution." There are many explanations for this vic­
tory of agit-prop. In 1923 Majakovskij had reached the end of
the road as far as the elegiac mode was concerned. In an artis­
tic sense About That was a "repetition of the past," intensified
'and raised to perfection. His journalistic verse was a search for
something new; it was an experiment in the production of new
ESSAYS / 2 3 7
materials and in untested genres. To my skeptical comments
about these poems Majakovskij replied: "Later on you'll under­
stand them." And when The Bedbug and The Bathhouse
appeared it became clear that his most recent poems had been
a huge laboratory experiment in language and theme, a labor
masterfully exploited in his first efforts in the area of prose
drama and offering a rich potential for future growth.
Finally, in connection with its social setting, the journalistic
verse of Majakovskij represented a shift from an unrestrained
frontal attack in the direction of an exhausting trench warfare.
Byt, with its swarm of heartbreaking trivia, is still with him.
And it is no longer "rubbish with its own proper face," but
"petty, small, vulgar rubbish." You cannot resist the pressure of
such rubbish by grandiloquent pronouncements "in general and
in toto," or by theses on communism, or by pure poetic devices.
"Now you have to see the enemy and take aim at him." You
have to smash the "swarm of trivia" offered by byt "in a small
way" and not grieve that the battle has been reduced to many
minor engagements. The invention of strategies for describing
"trifles that may also prove a sure step into the future"-this is
how Majakovskij understood the immediate task of the poet.
Just as one must not reduce Majakovskij the propagandist to
a single dimension, so, too, one-sided interpretations of the
poet's death are shallow and opaque. "The preliminary investi­
gation indicates that his act was prompted by motives of a
purely personal character." But the poet had already provided
an answer to that in the subtitle of About That: "From personal
motives, but about the general way of life."
Bela Kun preached to the late poet not to "subordinate the
great cause to our own petty personal feelings."l1 Majakovskij
had entered his objection in good time:
2 3 8 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
With this petty/
and personal theme
That's been sung so many times
I've trod the poetical treadmill
And I'm going to tread it again.
This theme/ right now
Is a prayer to Buddha
And sharpens a black man's knife for his master.
If there's life on Mars/ and on it just one
Human-hearted creature
Then he too is writing now
About that same thing.
The journalist Kol'cov hastened to explain: "Majakovskij
himself was wholly absorbed in the business affairs of various
literary groups and in political matters. Someone else fired that
shot, some outsider who happened to be in control of a revolu­
tionary poet's mind and will. It was the result of the temporary
pressure of circumstances." And once again we recall the rebuke
Majakovskij delivered long before the fact:
Dreams are a harm
And it's useless to fantasize.
You've got to bear the burden of service.
But sometimesLife appears to you in a new light
And through the mess of trifles
You catch sight of something great and good.
"We condemn this senseless, unforgivable act. It was a stu­
pid and cowardly death.We cannot but protest most vigorous­
ly against his departure from life, against his incongruous end."
(Such was the pronouncement of the Moscow Soviet and oth­
ers.) But Majakovskij had already parodied these very funeral
-speeches in The Bedbug. "Zoja Berezkin's shot herself-Aha!
She' ll catch it for that at her party-section meeting." Says a
ESSAYS / 2 3 9
doctor in the future world commune: "What is suicide? ...You
shot at yourself? ...Was it an accident?" "No, it was from love."
"Nonsense.... Love makes you want to build bridges and have
children. . . . But you. . . .Yes, yes, yes! "
In general life has been imitating Majakovskij's satirical
lines with horrifying regularity. Pobedonosikov, the comic fig­
ure in The Bathhouse, who has many features that remind us of
Lunacharskij, brags that "I have no time for boat rides ... Such
petty entertainments are for various secretaries: 'Float on, gon­
dola mine!' I have no gondola but a ship of state." And now
Lunacharskij himself faithfully echoes his comic double. At a
meeting called in memory of the poet, the minister hastens to
explain that the former's farewell lines about a "love-boat
smashed on the daily grind" have a pathetic sound: "We know
very well that it was not on any love-boat that he sailed our
stormy seas. He was the captain of a mighty ship of state."
These efforts to forget the "purely personal" tragedy of
Majakovskij sometimes take the form of conscious parody. A
group of writers in a provincial town published a resolution in
which they assure Soviet society that they will take very seri­
ously the advice of the late poet not to follow his example.
It is very strange that on this occasion such terms as "acci­
dental, " "personal, " and so forth are used precisely by those who
have always preached a strict social determinism. But how can
one speak of a private episode when the law of large numbers
is at work, in view of the fact that in a few years' time the whole
bloom of Russian poetry has been swept away?
In one of Majakovskij's longer poems, each of the world's
countries brings its best gift to the man of the future; Russia
brings him poetry. "The power of their voices is most resound­
ingly woven into song." Western Europe is enraptured with
Russian art: the medieval icon and the modern film, the classi-
2 4 0 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
cal ballet and the latest theatrical experiment, yesterday's novel
and the latest music.And yet that art which is probably Russia's
greatest achievement, her poetry, has never really been an
export item. It is intimately Russian and closely linked to the
Russian language and would probably not survive the misfor­
tunes of translation. Russian poetry has witnessed two periods
of high flowering: the beginning of the nineteenth century and
the present century. And the earlier period as well as the later
had as its epilogue the untimely death of very many great poets.
If you can imagine how slight the contributions of Schiller,
Hoffmann, Heine, and especially Goethe would have been if
they had all disappeared in their thirties, then you will under­
stand the significance ofthe following Russian statistics: Ryleev
was executed when he was thirty-one. Batjushkov went mad
when he was thirty.Venevitinov died at the age of twenty-two,
Del'vig at thirty-two. Griboedov was killed when he was thir­
ty-four, Pushkin when he was thirty-seven, Lermontov when
he was twenty-six.12 Their fate has more than once been char­
acterized as a form of suicide. Majakovskij himself compared
his duel with by! to the fatal duels of Pushkin and Lermontov.
There is much in common in the reactions of society in both
periods to these untimely losses. Once again, a feeling of sud­
den and profound emptiness overwhelms one, an oppressive
sense of an evil destiny lying heavily on Russian intellectual life.
But now as then other notes are louder and more insistent.
The Western mind can hardly comprehend the stupid,
unrestrained abuse of the dead poets.A certain Kikin expressed
great disappointment that Martynov, the killer of that "coward­
ly scoundrel Lermontov, " had been arrested.And Tsar Nicholas
1's final words on the same poet were: "He was a dog and he died
'
:t dog's death." And in the same spirit the emigre newspaper
The Rudder (Rut) carried no obituary on the occasion of
ESSAYS / 2 41
Majakovskij's death, but instead a cluster of abusive remarks
leading up to the following conclusion: "Majakovskij's whole
life gave off a bad smell. Is it possible that his tragic end
could set all that right?" (Ofrosimov). But what of the Kikins
and Ofrosimovs? They're but illiterate zeros who will be
mentioned in the history of Russian culture, if at all, only for
having defecated on the fresh graves of poets. It is incompa­
rably more distressing to see slops of slander and lies poured
on the dead poet by Xodasevich, who is privy to poetry. He
certainly knows the value of things; he knows he is slander­
ously smearing one of the greatest Russian poets. W hen he
caustically remarks that only some fifteen active years were
allotted to Majakovskij-"the lifetime of a horse"-it is self­
abuse, gallows humor, mockery of the tragic balance sheet of
his own generation. If Majakovskij's final balance sheet was
"life and I are quits, " then Xodasevich's shabby little fate is
"the most terrible of amortizations, the amortization of heart
and soul."
The latter was written about emigre philistines. But the tra­
dition of Pushkin's days is repeated by the same philistines of
Moscow stock who immediately try at all costs to replace the
live image of the poet by a canonic saindike mask. And even
earlier. . . . But of what went on earlier, Majakovskij himself
related a few days before his death in a talk at a literary gath­
ering: "So many dogs snipe at me and I 'm accused of so many
sins, both ones I have and ones I am innocent of, that at times
it seems to me as if all I want to do is go away somewhere and
sit still for a couple of years, if only to avoid listening to bark­
ing!" And this harrassment, framing the poet's demise, was
precisely described in advance by Majakovskij:
2 4 2 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
Yellow rag after yellow rag
of curses be raised!
Gossip for your ears!
Gossip and bite!
I'm like a cripple in the throes of love.
Leave a tub of slops for your own.
I'm not a hindrance.
But why all these insults?
I'm only a verse
I'm only a soul.
While below:
No!
You're our century-old foe.
One such turned up­
A hussar!
Have a sniff of powder,
a little pistol lead.
Fling open your shirt!
Don't celebrate the coward!
This is just another example of what they call the "incongruity"
beween Majakovskij's end and his life of yesterday.
Certain questions are particularly intriguing to journalists.
W ho was responsible for the war? W ho was to blame for the
poet's death? Biographers are amateur private detectives, and
they will certainly take great pains to establish the immediate
reason for the suicide.They will add other names to that varie­
gated assemblage of poet-killers, the "son of a bitch D'Anthes "
who killed Pushkin, the "dashing Major Martynov " who killed
Lermontov, and so forth. People who seek the explanation of
various phenomena will, if they bear Russia a grudge, readily
demonstrate, citing chapter, verse, and historical precedent,
that it is dangerous to practice the trade of poet in Russia. And
'
'if their grudge is only against contemporary Russia, it will also
be quite easy to defend such a thesis with weighty arguments.
ESSAYS
I 243
But I am of another mind. It seems to me that the one nearest
the truth was the young Slovak poet Novomesk" who said: "Do
you imagine that such things happen only there, in Russia?
Why that's what our world is like nowadays." This is in answer
to those phrases, which have alas become truisms, concerning
the deadly absence of fresh air, certainly a fatal condition for
poets. There are some countries where men kiss women's
hands, and others where they only say "I kiss your hand." There
are countries where Marxist theory is answered by Leninist
practice, and where the madness of the brave, the martyr's
stake, and the poet's Golgotha are not just figurative expres­
SIOns.
In the last analysis, what distinguishes Russia is not so much
the fact that her great poets have ceased to be, but rather that
not long ago she had so many of them. Since the time of the
first Symbolists, Western Europe has had no great poetry.
The real question concerns not causes but consequences,
however tempting it may be to protect oneself from a painful
realization of what's happened by discussing the reasons for it.
It's a small thing to build a locomotive:
Wind up its wheels and off it goes.
But if a song doesn't fill the railway station­
Then why do we have alternating current?
Those lines are from Majakovskij's "Order to the Army of
Art." We are living in what is called the "reconstruction period,"
and no doubt we will construct a great many locomotives and
scientific hypotheses. But to our generation has been allotted
the morose feat of building without song. And even if new
songs should ring out, they will belong to another generation
and a different curve of time.Yet it is unlikely that there will be
ncw songs. Russian poctry of our century is copying and it
2 4 4 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
would seem outdoing that of the nineteenth century: "the fate­
ful forties are approaching, " the years, in other words, of lethar­
gic inertia among poets.
The relationships between the biographies of a generation
and the march of history are curious. Each age has its own
inventory of requisitions upon private holdings. Suddenly his­
tory finds a use for Beethoven's deafness and Cezanne's astig­
matism. The age at which a generation's call to service in his­
tory's conscription comes, as well as the length of its service, are
different for different periods. History mobilizes the youthful
ardor of some generations and the tempered maturity or old
wisdom of others. W hen their role is played out yesterday's
rulers of men's minds and hearts depart from the proscenium to
the backstage of history to live out their years in private, either
on the profits from their intellectual investments, or else as
paupers. But sometimes it happens otherwise. Our generation
emerged at an extraordinarily young age: "We alone, " as
Majakovskij put it, "are the face of our time. The trumpet of
time blows for us." But up to the present moment there are not
any replacements, nor even any partial reinforcements.
Meanwhile the voice and the emotion of that generation have
been cut short, and its allotted quota of feeling-joy and sad­
ness, sarcasm and rapture-has been used up. And yet, the
paroxysm of an irreplaceable generation turned out to be no
private fate, but in fact the face of our time, the breathlessness
of history.
We strained toward the future too impetuously and avidly
to leave any past behind us. The connection of one period
with another was broken. We lived too much for the future,
thought about it, beli�ved in it; the news of the day-suffi­
�ient unto itself-no longer existed for us.We lost a sense of
the present. We were the witnesses of and participants in
ESSAYS / 2 4 5
great social, scientific, and other cataclysms. Byt fell behind us,
just as in the young Majakovskij's splendid hyperbole: "One
foot has not yet reached the next street." We knew that the
plans of our fathers were already out of harmony with the facts
of their lives.We read harsh lines alleging that our fathers had
taken the old and musty way of life on a temporary lease. But
our fathers still had left some remnant of faith in the idea that
that way of life was both comfortable and compulsory for all.
Their children had only a single-minded, naked hatred for the
ever more threadbare, ever more alien rubbish offered by the
established order of things.And now the "efforts to organize a
personal life are like attempts to heat up ice cream."
As for the future, it doesn't belong to us either. In a few
decades we shall be cruelly labeled as products of the past mil­
lennium. All we had were compelling songs of the future; and
suddenly these songs are no longer part of the dynamic of his­
tory, but have been transformed into historico-literary facts.
When singers have been killed and their song has been dragged
into a museum and pinned to the wall of the past, the genera­
tion they represent is even more desolate, orphaned, and lost­
impoverished in the most real sense of the word.
PART FOUR
POEMS AND PROSE
POEMS AND PROSE / 2 4 9
JUVEN ILIA
1.
Death
The grass in the field,
The sand in the sea
Are happier than me.
My childhood's fled,
My youth's but a hint
Of the resounding day.
My strength's buried
In the tomb of night.
Death's not o'er the hill
But upon my back "Be gone, get ye hence!"
Life just stopped.
Death approached.
But I wanted to live
Despite its burden . . .
Life's thread snapped
When time broke.
250
/ MY FUTURIST YEARS
2.
A Bachelor's Apartment
(An Imitation of Maksim Gor'kij)
The sun rises and sets,
But the apartment's empty.
One hears from time to time
A plaintive cat's meow.
On a chair in the study
Torn trousers hang;
The cockroaches parade
Ominously on their spines.
And from the dust one can't
Even find one's way inside;
W ithout a young wife,
It'll never get whipped away.
If only I had a cook,
Even if I called her "Frau, "
If I were a minute late,
She'd get mad ... and "Kaput. "
I no longer run around
W ith my youn!? brunette;
My youth is gone,
In my disgusting bachelorhood.
P O EM S A N D PROSE
I 251
F U T U RI S T I C V E R S E S
3.
In the electro your costumechik's electric
So silhouettic in tact now eyes there curls dream bra
Bold hand partner screen quickflicking each stroke
So jealous jocks grab fidgetty ball love each trick
4.
mglybzhvuo jix "jan'dr'ju chtleshchk xi fja s"p skypolza
a Vtab-dlkni t'japra kakajzchdi a Jew's an inkwell
5.
chr. greet fg evl if clear don't see. ressur wordses send bot­
tom ressurwooods yr mnd. wt. save skn splyd mowgli shush
spit not t eat shchi so'd year shu year pop weave bipl. 0
futpud. I be glss this thrughted forgt. nakd bipl (for
tthrough carrying away wmns remns beep only taking
=
wrds)
Great! Greats! Grandiotsar!
VRu
�he gotC H E itched
N y
X
252 I
MY FUTURIST YEARS
Dangerlessnesses of years burdens
=
worlds empties x ancient­
ness x self x draughts And I by her at bipl. any which way but
knowed. burdener lazy link barking trembling aN V. towhat but
tears vversess if antithesis gay light soft noose . . .
6.
Distraction
suffocating from yankee arcana
from cancan and yardmuck
my pretty whale mouth ching
a whale and so and better than
armagnac
etiquette is quite cute
a label on your shirt
little kantian quit
A and 0 hoot
quant and took
so soft
fogms a.chums scum
and-mm-ed kicks
attractions hint of clever thumb
m-u-u-ck g-o-o-nnne
not a header by airship
but a public stop ,
a lop giving way in the vago
POEMS AND PROSE
I 253
7.
How Many Fragments Have Scattered
For lovers of colored cardboard boxes and powdered elements
The city a lamppost the street's din and a car's horn the
daughter of rooms etc.
Along their shattered nerves like words or crazy verses
Juggling the intersections the city's nights dance
W hat grief the street people are turning glued to a car's wheels
The sun Bunsen burner the sky over us coquettes a skirt spleen
The ill-fated one is run over by a truck and becomes a lump
The signboard thinks it's the city's friend
If it gets unstitched by passers-by (sic)
No city
It's just an absence of blue leit-lines
That's why that one invaded destroyed measure
as if it were a chimera
And don't seek
Why there's a superabundance of usual caresses. Again and
agam
Is that why all the colors have flown off the peacock's tail
And all that's left is the emptiness show your tickets
As of old the gazes of tongue-tied eternity shush
Four eyes the legs of a V iennese chair
I t blows eveningly and windily
o
you city ensued inhumanly
Roman Jaljagrov
254
I
M Y FUTURIST YEARS
8.
Words' Farewell
The Universe is pierced by a dreadful draft
Voids are pouncing right through houses
My chateau's upset, its foundations violable
I shall not burst into the void for a while perhaps
Like an empty dream of dissolute voids
Houses arise like crying cliffs
Houses 100m among dull valleys
And the city is drempt as a lowering cloud
The cloud is a lure, mist and water all around
Everywhere a light breeze
And the wires have been stretched
Hurriedly transmitting rumors to all
The shade of chalk-bodied telephones
Has saved us from the horror of tender urns
Although the stale receiver is fiercer than a python
But I hold on without clutching the cord
During the third ring comes a thrice-long dream
A glass of tea with a lemon in it
I'm in the wings, a dusty bush,
W hen suddenly the theater director proclaims:
"How come you're here, watch from a distance!
W hat's the point of creeping backstage! "
Yes, it's good if there are wings
They're salvation, spare us the shame of voids
But all the wings have been gnawed away by rats
Gogoi ' wrote about it in The Inspector General!
POEMS AND PROSE /
Like a string of rotten mushrooms,
Words are threaded on a wire
While earlier the city hung on a firmanent of words
Like a curtain on a rod
JOCULAR VER S E S
9.
We drank tea more intoxicating
Than mere wine. So much rum
Has flowed we're deprived of reason,
But you are steadier than the cup.
You comfort us, like ROSTA posters. . .
You're as treacherous and pure
As the Talmud! From now on
I'll treat the world less harshly!
Most of my dreams have faded away
Since I found wisdom in your home:
At least I'm spared the cab-fares!
Hurray, reason's returned to Roman!
And I can finally laugh again.
You know each incident as well
As each of Pushkin's word-divides.
Your acute and delicate wit
Divided t he entire
fi rmament!
255
256 /
MY FUTURIST YEARS
10.
W hen w e to Voronezh d o go,
We' ll get as drunk as a cobbler.
You'll angrily lay me low:
Romochka, go to bed, you hobbler!
I n ecstasy I'll leap up the wall,
I'll stuff bliny down my throat,
Drink wine until I can barely crawl,
Forget all my thoughts, like a goat.
W hen the night sleeps, by moon illumined,
I'll run out, hot as Natan Al'tman.
I'll shout to the seething Don, -not the Don, but Punin:
"Hey, you want some wine, ataman?"
11.
Did I get in contact with Kornej Chukovskij
Just to try out my silly dactyls?
If you'd open a few bottles of wine,
I would write endlessly in Chukokkala!
I would soar, the boldest of falcons,
I would write a hundred lines or so,
But without some healing juice,
I can't grace your �ear Chukokkala
With my variegated, brilliant verse.
POEMS AND P ROSE
12.
The era of the
R. S. F. S. R.
Has come.
We recall Robespierre!
Our sole hope
Lies in an English "Sir. "
We still mope
For Roederer.
We once rolled in the hay,
Didn't mind the bill,
Gulped down Muscadet
And rum.
Now we've got "democrats."
Vodka's quite dear:
Only surrogates
Are near.
We've become real lean.
We used to eat cakes.
The money's all gone.
How my belly aches!
Now only in Riga
Are there caraway loaves.
I don't �ivc a tl�a,
So?
/ 257
258 /
MY FUTURIST YEARS
We had limousines
With fabulous tires,
And plenty of benzine:
Now we're just tired!
We have to go home
On foot
From the Georgians to Mona.
Ugh: no boots!
Matches cost two
Kerenskys, but what a cost!
"Who stole the lumber from the mews? "
I'm lost!
My knees are shaking.
Krylenko or Lacis
Will shove me, mistaken,
To my last laugh!
POEMS A N D PROSE
PO E M S TO EL S A TRIOLET
13.
Pity the poor student Roman:
I'm worn out by passion, pour
The balm of love on my fervid heart!
And, by the way,
I'll surely begin to preach
That our youthful disquiet
Will soon abate in a while.
And our happiness will make
Mama happy. And I too, along
With her will rejoice, friends!
1 1 May 1917
14.
Oh, Elsa! Oh, Elsa!
We love ourselves,
But you're too bella.
But "by the way, "
Each whom your beauty
Enchants you send away.
Each asks: will it be me?
You cram for construction exams,
To go on to architectural concerns,
I 259
260 /
MY FUTURIST YEARS
Dragging your admirers' swank tails
From Pjatnickij, through Kuzneckij Most,
To Beautiful Gates. (By the way,
My tail got caught and almost lost.)
But your blues won't disappear
From a building's quaint veneer.
You keep saying: "I'm going to Bukhara."
W hy? For what? No one knows the get-go.
So we a11 live in panic. W here
Will she go?Along what road
Rushes your childish caprice,
Giving us a complete surprise?
Then you'll give us all a reprimand:
W ho'll come with me to ancient Samarkand?
Or, perhaps, your anguished heart
Will drive you to dusty Merv?
Or, perhaps, you' ll go on
Anguish-driven to Fergana? . . .
Oh, Elsa, oh, Elsa!
Loving you like something else-a,
Here's my heartfelt advice:
Live without a care in life
And give up your blues Don't go all the way to Kathmandu.
Toss away your fantasia Forget about Central Asia.
Better sit quietly at home
And love . . . your student Roma.
Take a look: your dear philologist
For love of you has turned to dust.
He's forgotten folklore and Sanskrit,
Day and night at your feet does sit.
POEMS AND PROSE
I n despair at the absence of rum
He's about to drink a cup of Broma.
Oh Elsa, oh Elsa!
I'll tell you all about him:
Not even vodka, but something else-a
He's ready to drink your health to.
I even think he'd be pleased
If to forget your charms
They brought him methyl fumes!
Oh Elsa, oh Elsa!
His love for you is something else-a.
15.
I can't help but heed it,
My love for you's so deep;
If you go to Tahiti,
I shall forever weep.
/ 261
262 /
MY FUTURI S T YEARS
P RO S E
Excursions Around My Room
Chapter III
Christmas had long past, as had Shrovetide, and a trip... well,
forget it. The table had only just begun little by little to take on
a decent appearance, when quite by chance I came across a
stamp album that thrust me into meditation. A stamp album is
such an insignificant thing, but what reflections it can evoke.
So I started meditating on exactly which kind of envelope
would bear each stamp. Here's a pretty little Italian stamp. One
can't help but think that it would be on a letter full of poetry, as
poetic as its homeland, which they call "the Boot of Europe." A
most prosaic comparison... And here's a blue French stamp
with a depiction of the Republic; Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite­
there's the Republican motto. It's only now that the color blue
suits you, not before, when you needed a crimson-red color, the
color of blood.
And here's a German stamp I got from my uncle's office. I
know the contents of the letter it was on almost for sure: an
inquiry about the number of sacks or boxes of one or another
sort of goods: the same old song!
POEMS AND PROSE
/ 263
Now I'm opening the album at random-Australia. Bah! By
what strange fate did Qyeen V ictoria's portrait end up here?
And here, in New Southern Belize; wherever you turn there's a
portrait of Qyeen V ictoria! Well, enough of the English! I'll
take a look at America, at Mrica; here and there, more
V ictorias... Also in Natal, even in Canada. Insatiable English!
Let's take a look at Asia: Messrs Englishmen, give me a break!!!
They've picked up a bit of China, they're lying in wait for
Tibet, they've tightened their belts in Arabia, in . . . Messrs
Englishmen, in India, that magnificent country to which we
are obliged for our counting and even our very language, even
there you're oppressors. Well, insatiable Messrs Englishmen,
sometimes I even have doubts whether Russia belongs to you,
too. Some time (in the distant future, of course) the French, in
airplanes obedient to their helm, will land on the moon, and I'll
make a bet there'll be an English flag there and that they poked
their noses even in there, with their V ictoria. Now good-bye,
Messrs Englishmen, wring the last crumbs out of the poor
Indians; all I have to say is that if I were in their place, I'd give
you the finger. You deprive me of any desire for reflection;
farewell! . . . Perhaps you are mad at me, gracious reader (if only
I ever had one), for having sat too long over a stamp album.
Excuse me! ... but don't expect any further apologies from me,
I'm not a fan of such empty words. Well, now it's time to con­
tinue my travels; I won't sit too long over anything more. So,
I'm taking off further two months later. Sorry, two and a half,
for among my readers there might be mathematicians (people
whose tongues turn only on pluses and minuses), and I'm afraid
of their opinion, afraid they may start saying: - What a great
traveller! He waits two, two months, and because of what? Because of a stupid stamp album, he can't even precisely deter­
mine thc Icngth and width of his own room. It's quite befitting
264
/
MY FUTURIST YEARS
of a mathematician, enough said! He can't define a number, and
on top of that he doesn't even know the interval of time he
spent doing nothing.-And those are the opinions of them that
I'm scared by, it's shameful, isn't it, oh readers? But so mar­
velously is arranged the world: we laugh at fools, while at the
same time we are afraid of their j udgments. . . . Reader, you're
plugging up your ears? Well, this time you're right: instead of
hitting the road, I'm occupying myself with empty words. Yes,
so what is this lying on the table?-Oh, my magnifYing glass,
an interesting thing. If only it were a microscope! It's interest­
ing to look through it at a drop of water, on these infusorians;
and if the microscope were even more perfected, one that
would show an infusorian at a man's height, that would be fun.
A drop of water turns into a city, and in it the infusorians scur­
ry about. . . .W ho's that there? W hat's this before my eyes?­
Carpenters (but, understandably, from the world of infusoria)
around a wall, but actually it's dust-coats, unnoticeable even for
the unarmed eye, and magnified by the microscope. How they
bustle about, exactly as if they were in terror. . . . Ha, ha, ha, ha,
how santimoniously this fat one comes forward, just as if he
were a merchant from the other side of the Moscow river; and
over here, this young infusorian, just think how he hurries - a
Don Juan of infusorians, honest to God a Don Juan, and how
he bows to that noble feminine personage who has just turned
to the "wall." And there, obviously, is the plebian part of the
water-how they're fighting there, how they're quarreling
there! The struggle for existence . . . whose property does it
indeed consist of: not only people, but beasts, and the birds, and
insects, and ... even infusorians. And the infusoria fought, bit,
hissed; one can't even list everything they did. And a noble
, infusorian, who accidentally happened to fall into this sphere,
looked at them, having puffed up its little black lips.And if one
POEMS AND PROSE /
265
were to show this scene to a society lady, I can just imagine how
she would puff up her little lips, even if they were not black, for
indeed this is nothing other than a picture of every-day life and
would be a good lesson for you, society lady, despite the fact
that it will not teach you the lastest fashionable dance, though,
on the other hand, it will show you graphically a photo of our
life. But why have these respected and not-so-respected infuso­
rians suddenly grown alarmed?-Aha, I get it, they're being
thrown into confusion by the drop, which is little by little dry­
ing up. And what if I could grab just one infusorian? . . . Oh,
how stupid I am! I totally forget that I'm fantasizing. Instead of
the proposed trip, I'm dreaming over a magnifYing glass. Oh,
this distraction, this garrulousness! I'll tie a knot in my hand­
kerchief to remind me and start my exploration tomorrow at
the crack of dawn.
Chapter IV
I'm setting out. The table is empty and looks like a desert only
occasionally covered with oases (ink drops). But if one looks
more closely, one can notice that these are not simply blotches,
as they seemed at first, but entire arithematical operations; peo­
ple who look like beasts and beasts who look like people; words
that I myself am unable to read, just as in the German saying:
"The poor ass, he can't even read what he himself wrote. "
C OMMENTAR I ES
C O M M E N TA R I E S
PART O N E : M E M O I RS
-
A
/ 269
FUTURIAN O F S C I E N C E
R.O. Jakobson's autobiograpical notes are based o n tape-recorded conversa­
tions with Bengt Jangfeldt, which took place in February-March (in
Cambridge, Massachusetts) and in June (on the island of Gotland) of 1977.
In editing the text the editor has removed the questions and comments, thus
transforming the dialogue into Jakobson's own monologue. The tape-record­
ing consists of twelve conversations in the course of which, naturally, neither
chronological nor thematic consistency were observed. Therefore, certain
parts have been transposed in the interest of producing a unified text.
Likewise, some insignificant corrections of a purely stylistic nature were
introduced, and certain obvious mistakes and inaccuracies were corrected.
The editor's own interpolations are given in square brackets. The title belongs
to the editor. [The editor's title to the Russian edition was Jakobson­
Budetljanin. The latter term was a neologism coined by the Russian Futurists
to differentiate themselves from the Italian Futurists. It is derived from the
form budet 'will be', and is more native sounding than the foreign derived
term foturist.
Translator's note.]
The text up to p. 20 was corrected by Jakobson himself
The text is devided into three parts: I. The Russian period of Jakobson's
life; II. His emigration; III. His recollections about Majakovskij.
Fragments of the dialogue not included in the basic text are introduced in
the commentaries with the abbreviation TR ( tape recording).
-
=
1.
Nikolaj Alekseevich Umov (1846-1915) was a physicist and professor of
Moscow University. He was famous for his scientific-propagandistic
activities. Orest Danilovich Xvol'son (1852-1934) was a physicist, a pro­
fessor of Petersburg University, and a corresponding member of the
Russian Academy of Sciences. He was the author of a five-volume
Course ofPhysics, which went through numerous editions. The interest of
young philologists in contemporary physics is attested to by a letter by
270
I MY F U T U RI S T Y E A R S
B.V. Tomashevskij to his wife, asking her to send him from Petersburg
to Liege "excepts from Xvol'son about the conductivity of gases."
Nevertheless, Tomashevskij's attitude to Xvol'son was somewhat scepti­
cal, as his letter to S. P. Bobrov of May 27, 1916 indicates: "You know,
there are two types of scholars: one knows a lot - that's Xvol'son-but
their name is not connected to anything in science. Except for encyclo­
pedias they can make nothing of their learning. Others . . . know little,
but at the same time are capable of applying their learning."
(Tomashevskij 1990, 145-46.)
2.
Isaak L 'vovich Kan (1895-1945) was the editor of the school journal of
the Lazarev Institute, Student's Thought, in which Jakobson published
his first literary experiments. "Later, Kan," Jakobson further recalls,
"occupied himself with questions of art, both as an artist and theoreti­
cian of painting. Then, partly under my influence, he became interested
in linguistics, then turned to archaeology, in connection with the ever­
growing fascination of the time with Old Russian painting. Later, after
the Revolution, he became an architect, a very talented one, emigrated
first to Berlin and then to Prague. In Czechoslovakia there are some very
interesting buildings he designed. He remained in Czechoslovakia and
perished during the German occupation." (TR.) Together with
Jakobson, Buslaev and Bogatyrev, Kan took part in dialectological expe­
ditions in the districts of the Moscow Province (Jakobson/Bogatyrev
1922, 175). In his article "The Influence of the Revolution on the
Russian Language" Jakobson thanks Kan for his observations used in the
study (Jakobson 1921a, 31). See also the jocular poem by Jakobson
addressed to Kan in Jangfeldt, ed., 1992, no. 4, 1 1 1.
3.
Sergey Maksimovich Bajdin (1894-1919) was an artist. See also letter 1
to M. Matjushin and letter 6 to Elza Triolet.
4.
The exhibition "Target," with works by M. Larionov, N. Goncharova, K.
Malevich, M. Le-Dantju and others, was open from March 24 to April
7, 1913. The exhibition "No. 4" (Futurists, Rayonists, Primitivists) was
organized by Larionov in March 1914 with the participation of V.
Chekrygin and other young artists.
5.
Serov's funeral took place in Moscow on November 24, 1911.
C O M M E N TA R I E S T O PAG E S
4-8 / 271
6.
Both pictures are now in the collection of the Russian Museum in St
Petersburg.
7.
Vladimir Zhebrovskij was a schoolmate ofJakobson, who spent his sum­
mer vacations at the Zhebrovskijs' estate in the Tula province (see SW IV,
641).
8.
Cf. a newspaper account of the event: "A student of the School of
Painting, after referring to the heavy losses which Russian art had suf­
fered in the last five years in the persons of Musatov, Vrubel', and, final­
ly, V. A. Serov, said that the best celebration of the radiant memory of the
deceased was to follow his behests" (Russkoe slovo, February 25, 1911).
9.
The Knave of Diamonds exhibition opened on January 23, 1912.
10. Adol'fIzrailevich Mil'man (1888-1930) was a member of the Knave of
Diamonds group. He participated in the exhibitions of the Knave of
Diamonds in 1912 (four pictures), 1913 (at the Moscow exhibition, four
pictures; at the Petersburg one, thirteen pictures), and 1914 (eighteen
pictures). (The catalogue of the exhibitions is published in Pospelov
1990, 242-67.) After the February Revolution he took part in the work
of the "World of Art" society and the Soviet of Organizations of Artists
of Moscow (which corresponded to the Petrograd Union of Artistic
Activists). His picture "A Crimean Landscape" (1916) was shown at the
exhibition "A Time of Change 1905-1930" in Helsinki in 1988. "I was
on good terms with Adol'f Mil'man. He even gave me one of his land­
scapes, which I hung in my room for a long time. He had painted it
someplace near Zhiguli, where Levitan painted." (TR.)
11. Raxmaninov's "Island of the Dead" was performed on February 4, 1912
at the Assembly of Nobility. In his autobiography Majakovskij writes
that at this evening, when both he and Burljuk "ran from the intolerable
melodicized boredom," Russian Futurism was born.
12. In the debates arranged by the Knave of Diamonds group on February
12 and 25, 1912, David Burljuk gave two lectures on Cubism. According
to A. Kruchcnyx, during the second debate, which Jakobson attended,
Krurhcnyx and M aj a kovskij acted as official opponents (see Xardzhiev
1 ')76, 1 1 ). l't: 1\ . Krlll'hcnyx's memoirs: "Majakovskij delivered a whole
272
I MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
lecture on the fact that art corresponded to the spirit of the time, that,
when comparing the art of various epochs one could notice that there
was no such thing as eternal art, that it is diverse and dialectical. He
spoke seriously, almost academically" (Katanjan 1985, 59).
13. V. Xlebnikov's and A. Kruchenyx's A Game in Hell, illustrated with lith­
ographed drawings by M. Larionov and N. Goncharova, was ready in
August, 1912, although according to Knizhnaja letopis', it appeared in
the second half of October.
14. Genrix Edmundovich Tastevin (1881-1915) was a critic who at one time
worked as the secretary of the Symbolist journal The Golden Fleece
[Zolotoe runol . In 1914 he published a book entitled Futurism: On the
Path toward a New Symbolism. As the Russian delegate at the Parisian
"Societe des grands conferences," he invited the Italian Futurist F.T.
Marinetti to visit Russia in 1914. See below.
15. A. Thibaudet, La Poesie de S. Mallarme (Paris, 1913).
16. See Jangfeldt, ed., 1992, no 6 (p. 1 12) and pp. 262-265 above.
17. For Jakobson's translation of Mallarme, see Jangfeldt, ed. 1992, 125.
18. Massachusetts Institute ofTechnology Archives and Special Collections,
R. Jakobson, Manuscript Collection 72, Series 6A, 1 7: 63-68.1. (Further
references to this manucription collection are abbreviated "The Jakobson
Archive, M.LT.")
19. Cf. Jakobson's "Retrospect": "[Tredjakovskij'sl tetrameters-both iambic
and trochaic-proved to display an exceptional width of tentative rhyth­
mical variations, a license prompted by the inherited bookish pattern of
syllabic versification and probably also by the flexible forms of Russian
oral poetry which continuously attracted the attention of the laborious
innovator. . . . The superb variability of Tredjakovskij's iambic tetrame­
ter has been confirmed by the recent computation of Russian metricians
(in particular, M. L. Gasparov)" (SWV, 569-570). Jakobson refers here
to M.L. Gasparov's article on "Light and Heavy Verse" (1977), which
the compiler of these commentaries showed him during his stay on
Gotland in the summer of 1977, when Jakobson was working on the
C O M M E N TA RI E S TO PAG E S
8-12 / 273
"Retrospect" to the fifth volume of his Selected Writings. H e was struck
by the similarity between Gasparov's results and his own conclusions of
sixty years before. Jakobson's work on Trediakovskij at the beginning of
1915 were summarized in a lecture on "The Influence of Folklore on
Trediakovskij " at the Commission on Folklore attached to the
Ethnographic Division of the Society of Lovers of Natural Science,
Anthropology and Ethnography (SWIV, 614-633).
20. The collection appeared in the middle of December, 1912.
21. Eight of Xlebnikov's poems were united under the general title
Przheval'skij's Horse [after the explorer's discovery of the wild Asiatic
horse Equus przewalsii], including "On the Island of Osel," "The Lips
Sang Bobeobi," and "Veining His Winged Way in Signature of Gold."
Besides the poems Jakobson mentions, the poem "Monument" and
"Przheval'skij's Horse" were published in the collection.
22. One assumes the reference is to a debate on contemporary art orga­
nized by the Knave of Diamonds group on February 12, 1912, at
which D. Burljuk delivered a lecture "On Cubism and Other Trends in
Painting."
23. The debate took place February 12, 1913.
24. Majakovskij's appearance at the February 24th debate is not mentioned
in the newspapers. His attack on Voloshin is mentioned in connection
with the second debate of the Knave of Diamonds (see the next foot­
note). Cf. Shklovskij's account of Majakovskij's speech: "He quoted the
poem, changing it to read: 'If the worm of doubt has crawled up your
neck,! Squash it yourself, and don't have your servant do it for you.' If
you do not doubt the new art, why do you call in the Symbolists?"
(Shklovskij 1974, 26.)
25. Jakobson is referring to the "Second Debate on Contemporary Art"
organized by the Knave of Diamonds group. Cf. one newspaper's review:
''A Futurist appealed to the audience in a stentorian voice: 'Gentlemen,
I ask for your de fense against this group smearing spittle on the aspic of
art.' The audit,tH·c, of course, took the Futurist's side . . . . For an entire
ljuartt'r 01' ;111 hOl l r the hal1 l-(roaned under the weil-(ht of applause, shouts
274 /
MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
of 'down with them,' whistles and boos. All the same, Majakovskij's
decisiveness won the day." (Moskovskaja gazeta, February 25, 1913.)
26. In a letter to the editors of the newspaper Russkoe slovo (May 4, 1913),
Kandinskij declared that the inclusion of four poems in prose in his book
Kliinge in Russian translation took him completely by surprise.
27. K.D. Bal 'mont returned to Russia on May 5, 1 913.
28. On Majakovskij's speech see Katanjan 1985, 67.
29. Jakobson is referring here to L.Ju. and O.M. Brik. See Lili Brik's mem­
oirs about this gathering: "Majakovskij spoke boldly and with convic­
tion, saying things of the sort that earlier it was nice 'to stomp the steps
under one's feet,' but now he preferred to take an elevator. Later I saw
Brjusov telling Volodja off in one of the sitting rooms of the Circle: 'On
the day of a Jubilee . . . . Really, how can one?!' But he was clearly pleased
that Bal 'mont had gotten his . . . . That same evening I saw Volodja
standing in front of Repin's portrait of To1stoj and saying to a group of
gentlemen surrounding him: 'One really has to be a jerk to paint like
that.' Brik and I liked all of this a lot, but we continued to be indig­
nant-I, in particular-at the scandalists, who wouldn't permit a single
speech to go by without the police having to be called in and without
broken chairs. I still managed not to be dragged off once [by the police,
who] were checking what was going on." (Brik 1934, 59-60.)
30. The first collection A Trap for Judges appeared in 1910; the second-at
the beginning of 1913.
31. Gorodeckij's essay mentioned by Jakobson is a review of the second col­
lection A Trap for Judges and of Xlebnikov's and Kruchenyx's book A
Game in Hell. The review incorporates the entire text of Xlebnikov's
"Incantation by Laughter." Gorodeckij writes: "We encountered the
name of Aleksej Kruchenyx first, but we recall Viktor Xlebnikov from
the Studio organized by N. Kul'bin and from A TrapforJudges, famous
for having been printed on genuine wallpaper" (Rech', October 1, 1912,
269). Apart from "Incantation by Laughter," Xlebnikov's poem
"Thicket" was also published in Studio ifthe Impressionists in 1910.
C O M M E N TA RI E S TO PAG E S
1 3 - 2 0 I 2 75
32. See 1. P. Saxarov's collection Tales ofthe Russian People (1841), vol. 1, part
2, 46-47. "A Night in Galicia" was first published in February, 1914 in
Xlebnikov's Selection ofPoems. See also Xardzhiev 1975a. 33. According
to Knizhnaja letopis', Roar! was published by Kruchenyx's publishing
house EUY at the end of December, 1913.
34. This manifesto was published only in 1930 in UnpublishedXlebnikov, no.
18.
35. In Kruchenyx's diaries of 1916-1918, there are a number of entries tes­
tifYing to the intensity of his contacts with Jakobson: "At Jakobson's for
a critique of the materials"; "tell about everything you want: the letters
ofXlebnikov, Shemshurin, Jakobson, O. Rozanova"; "1) Jakobson-two
essays, his new transrational verses for Kul'bin . . . 9) await 10 books (?!),
ask Jakobson; 10) from Jakobson, various things, send to Kuchumov."
(From a private archive; the editor would like to thank A. E. Parnis for
this information.)
36. Despite Jakobson's statement that Kruchenyx preferred Xlebnikov to
Majakovskij, in 1914 he published the first book about the latter, The
Verses of v. MajakovskiJ.
37. In the book the date of publication is given as 1916. According to
Knizhnaja letopis the book actually appeared in August, 1915.
Transrational Boog contained two transrational poems signed "Aljagrov"
(Jakobson's literary pseudonym, on which see footnote 44 below).
"
38. See the description of this meeting with Kruchenyx in Jakobsonl
Pomorska 1982, 174-1 76.
39. C£ Xlebnikov's lines: "And the arrogant vaults soared I The laws of a
subterranean crowd." Majakovskij has: "Maliciously having forgotten
themselves under the vaults of the law, I live downcast persons."
-
40. See footnote 14 above.
41. Larionov proposed throwing "rotten eggs" at the "renegade" Marinetti
and pou rinl-( "sour milk" over him (sec the newspaper Rannee utro,
J anuary 2'i, 1 'J 1 4).
276
/ MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
42. After his lecture of January 30, 1914 in the small auditorium of the
Conservatory, Marinetti visited the Literary-Artistic Circle, where
Larionov was present. C£ a slightly different version of this episode in
SW II, 360.
43. The Alpine Rose was located at 4 Sofijka. C£ Jakobson's memoir of
1956: "They served a carafe with vodka, marked with centimeter lines.
One paid by the centimeter, according to how many centimeters had
been consumed. Majakovskij said: 'How many centimeters have I
drunk?'" (Jakobson 1956a). [In Russia vodka was usually served by
weight, 100 grams being a regular serving size - Translator's note.]
44. Apart from his joint publication with A. Kruchenyx, Transrational Boog,
Jakobson signed letters, poems and articles with this pseudonym right
up to 1919. According to Jakobson himself, the pseudonym Alj agrov
(variant Jaljagrov) should be deciphered as follows: Alja + g + ro + v.
"Alja" (or "Ljalja") was the name of his girlfriend, and "ro" is R(oman)
O(sipovich). In the variant Jaljagrov there is also a play on his family
name, Ja(kobson).
45. Jakobson is here speaking about the summer of 1914.
46. Majakovskij lived in Lubjanskij Thruway from 1919 until his death. See
p. 66 above.
47.
See footnote 54 below.
48. In his "Letter about Malevich" Jakobson assigns his visit to Malevich to
the year 1 914 (Jakobson 1976, 293), but one must assume that it ocurred
in 1915, when he was "already a student" at Moscow University.
49. Jakobson also assigns this meeting to Christmas 1 914 in his "Letter
about Malevich" (see the previous note). Cf. a similar attitude toward
Majakovskij on the part of one of the "very 'leftist' founders of Futurism"
after a reading of the poem War and the World: according to O. M. Brik,
the unnamed opponent "shouted that 'this is an outrage, it's anti-artistic,
it's in the vein of Leonid Andreev, it's not worthy of a leftist poet'" (cited
from Percov 1969, 307).
C O M M E N TA RI E S TO PAG E S 2 1 - 2 7 / 2 7 7
50.
C f. a letter from Malevich to Matjushin (June, 1 9 16): "The word 'as
such' should be transformed 'into something,' but this 'something'
remains dark. Thanks to this, many of the poets who have declared a war
against thought, against logic, have been forced to get stuck in the meat
of the old poetry (Majakovskij, Burljuk, Severjanin, Kamenskij).
Kruchenyx is still leading a battle against this old meat, not letting him­
self stop for long in one place, but this 'into something' hangs over him.
Without finding this 'into something,' he will be forced to suck up the
same old meat." (Malevich 1976, 190-91.)
51.
Jakobson is probably referring to his poem "How Many Fragments Have
Scattered," where the urban theme in the poetry of early Futurism is
parodied. (See poem 7 on p. 253 above.)
52.
On Transrational Boog see footnote 3 7 above. In the book
Transrationalists (1922), Kruchenyx cites one of"Aljagrov's unpublished
poems": "kt.vest' mgl zl l' jas." (See poem 5 on p. 249 above.)
53.
From the poem "Words' Farewell" (see p. 254 above).
54.
In a letter ofJune, 1916 Malevich writes Matjushin that "the new poets
waged a war against thought, which had enslaved free sound, and tried
to bring the letter closer to the idea of the sound (and not to music)"
(Malevich 1976, 190). He later expounded these ideas in his essay "On
Poetry" (1919).
55.
In 1908 Albert Sechehaye formulated the tasks confronting a new sci­
entific disciple which he termed "phonology." See Sechehaye 1908 and
Jakobson's discussion of it in SWI, 3 12. 56.
56.
Cf. E. Kovtun's commentary to his letters in Malevich
57.
Josef 'ima
(1891-1971).
Cf. JakobsoniPomorska
1976, 194.
1982, 1 1 1
and Toman
1987, 320.
58.
Karel Teige (1 900- 1951) was the main theoretician of the Czech avant­
garde in the 1920's and the founder, together with Nezval, of the poetic
group Dcvetsil. Jakohson's ties with the Czech avant-garde are analyzed
in tlt'tail in Linhartov.i 1 977, Toman 1987, and Effenberger 1983. See
also fi,ot lil ltl' 1 'i J. .
2 7 8 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
5 9 . The letter was written in January-February (?), 1 9 1 4 and published in
part in Xardzhiev 1976, 56-57.
60. In fact, the photographs used in Rodchenko's collages for the first edi­
tion of Majakovskij's About That were shot by A. Shterenberg.
61. A.A. Markov (1856-1922), a professor at Petersburg University, was a
mathematician who specialized in the theory of numbers and of proba­
bility. Jakobson is referring to his use of probability chains in analyzing
Pushkin's Eugene Onegin (see Markov 1913).
62. P. D. Pervov was a professor at V. Lepeshinskaja's Municipal Woman's
Professional School and the author of textbooks and anthologies of the
classical languages.
63. The inhabitants of the village of Novinskoe, where Jakobson and
Bogatyrev were conducting fieldwork, took the young folklorists for
German spies and tried to murder them, but at the last minute they
managed to escape. See SWIV, 634-644.
64. A.A. Buslaev (1897-1964?) was one of the seven founders of the
Moscow Linguistic Circle and served as its president from September,
1920 until March, 1922. His grandfather was the famous philologist F.I.
Buslaev (1818-1897).
65.
On Hussed's influence on Jakobson, see Holenstein 1975.
66. Cafe Tramble was located at 5 Petrovka St.
67. In Elsa Triolet's novel Wild Strawberry (1926, 168) she describes a man
named Radlov as "a tombstone to himsel£"
68. Tamara Begljarova, a friend of Elsa Triolet.
69. A.N. Vertinskij (1889-�957) often appeared on stage in his younger
years in the costume of Pierrot. Despite Vertinskij's reaction to
Majakovskij's presence in the audience, relations between the two poets
were entirely friendly. According to L.]u. Brik (1963, 347), Majakovskij
l i ked to quote Vertinskij 's son!!;s. C£ Vertinskij's autohio!!;raph ical notes
C O M M E N TA R I E S TO PAG E S
27-35 I 279
about his meetings and mutual appearances with Majakovskij (1990, 8788, 91, 93-94).
70. Sologub's play was performed on January 2, 7, 1 1 , 17 and 22, 1917 in
Komissarzhevskaja's Theater.
71. The first volume of Collections on the Theory 0/Poetic Language [Sborniki
po teorii poeticheskogo jazyka] appeared in 1916 (the military censor's
approval is dated August 24, 1916); the second is dated 1917 and
appeared at the very beginning of the year (censor's approval dated
December 24, 1916). The first issue contains Shklovskij's article
"Transrational Language and Poetry"; the second-Brik's "Sound
Repetitions." Both books carried the publishing imprint OMB, i.e.
O.M. Brik.
72. V. Shklovskij, The Resurrection 0/the Word (1914).
73. This excerpt is published in Winner 1977, 508. The beginning of
Jakobson's translation of A Cloud in Trousers into French was first pub­
lished in Jangfeldt, ed. 1992, 125-126 from the editor's tape-recording
ofJakobson's own recitation from memory. It reads as follows:
Vous direz, Ie deIire de la maladie?
Non, c'etait,
c' etait it Odessa.
"Je viens a quatre," Marie m'a dit.
Huit.
Neuf.
La onzieme commen�a.
Voici Ie soir
dans Ie froid nocturne
s'en fuit des fenetres,
decembreux,
sinistres.
Vers Ie dos decrep i t ricannent et hurlent
les lustres.
[. . .)
Apre, com me un
mot de·dedain,
tll cntras, Marie,
t·t til Ill'as dit,
t' l l t l HII'IlIl' l I t a l l t It's J4<lnts de daiTl1:
it' I I I C '
" S a vt'l V i l l i ."
1 I U1I'1I' ,
2 8 0 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
74. C£ L. Ju. Brik's memoirs: "Father died. I returned from the funeral in
Moscow. Elsa came to Petersburg [ ... ], Volodja came from Finland. We
whispered to Elsa pleadingly: 'Don't ask him to read.' But Elsa didn't lis­
ten to us, and for the first time we heard A Cloud in Trousers." (Brik
1934, 62.)
75. Maurice Grammont (1866-1946) was a phonetician and expert on
French verse.
76. In her last book, La mise en mots, Elsa Triolet reminisces about her
French tutor, Mademoiselle Dache: "La jeune personne qui m'appris Ie
fran<,:ais etait nee a Moscou de parents fran<,:ais, avait fait ses etudes dans
une ecole fran<,:aise moscovite et en gardait un accent russe que j'ai
fidelement attrape! Elle pouvait avoir seize ans quand elle apparut a la
maison. [. . . J J'avais dans les six ans et je savais deja lire et ecrire en
russe." (Triolet 1969, 82.)
77. C£ Shklovskij's letter to Jakobson in his book The Third Factory: "When
we met on Osja's couch, Kuzmins poems hung above the couch. You
were younger than me, and I tried to convince you of the new faith.
With the inertia of your weight, you accepted it." (Shklovskij 1926, 68.)
Jakobson and Bogatyrev wrote about the differences between OPO]AZ
and the Moscow Linguistic Circle at that time: "whereas the Moscow
Linguistic Circle proceeds from the proposition that poetry is language
in its aesthetic function, the Petrograders insist that the poetic motif is
far from being an unfolding of the linguistic material" (Jakobsonl
Bogatyrev 1922, 31).
78. Majakovskij returned to Petrograd on March 30 or 3 1 (April 13, New
Style), 1917, after a week-long stay in Moscow, where he appeared at a
meeting of the Soviet of Organizations of Moscow Artists with infor­
mation from the Petrograd Soviet of Artistic Activists (Katanjan 1985,
128). The reason for Jakobsons trip to Petrograd was his participation at
the Seventh Congress of the Consitutional Democratic Party in April,
1 917. The Congress took place on March 25-28 (April 7-10, New
Style), which puts in doubt either Katanjans chronicle or Jakobsons own
dating. Jakobson states the details in a letter he wrote to his attorney,
Professor Arthur Sutherland, on April 23, 1953 in connection with his
having been served a subpoena to appear before the U. S. House of
C O M M E N TA R I E S TO PAG E S
35-38 / 281
Representatives' Un-American Activities Committee (the subpoena was
later squelched, in all probability after the intervention of President
Dwight David Eisenhower, who had known Jakobson during his tenure
as President of Columbia University, when he had defended him against
attacks for holding the Masaryk Professorship, funded in part by the
Czech government): "As a student of Moscow University, I was for the
Russian Constitutional Democratic Party which advocated a constitu­
tional monarchy on the British model. In 1917-1918, I was an active
member of this party and preserved personal ties with its leader
Miliukov until the last war during which he died. In 1917-1918, I was a
member of the Presidium of the University faction of this party and as
such I actively participated in the national convention of the
Constitutional Democratic Party, April 1917 in St. Petersburg. When in
the spring of 1918 arrests among the members of this faction took place
I managed to escape and hid in the country for several months. When
in 1919 the party went underground, I continued to cooperate." (The
Jakobson Archive, M.LT.; the editor is grateful to Stephen Rudy for
bringing this information to his attention.)
79. The exhibition of Finnish artists in Petrograd opened on April 3 (16),
1917 at 2:00 p.m. in the art gallery of N .E. Dobychina on the Field of
Mars, after which, at seven in the evening, there was a banquet at the
restaurant Donon on 24 Mojka St. At the opening of the exhibition
there were present, apart from the Finnish artists, M. Gor"kij-"who
wanted to speak the four Finnish words he knew: Elakiiiin Suomi,
Rakastan Suomi"- A. Benois, V. Figner, E. Breshko-Breshkovskaja,
representatives of the Provisional Government (Miljukov, Rodichev), N.
Rerix, N. Al"tman and "the president of the Moscow futurists, David
Davidovich Burljuk," who expressed the desire of arranging a Russo­
Finnish exhibition "with the participation of our artists and, above all, of
the group he represented" (A.G-s., Hufuudstadsbladet, April 22, 1917).
According to the newspaper Rech" (April 5, 1917), Majakovskij also
spoke at the opening.
80. One assumes that the reference is to the sculptor Ville Vallgren (18551940), who gave an "enthusiastic" speech in French at the banquet which
"was interrupted by applause and cries of bravo" (A.G-s., Hufuudstads­
blat/d, April 25, 1 <) 1 7). The hanquet is descrihed both in the newspapers
and i n thc mcmoir l i terature. /\ week after the hanquet O. Leshkova
2 8 2 I MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
wrote to M. Le-Dantju: ''At the banquet for the opening of the exhibi­
tion . . . Dobychina (its organizer) seated . . . Majakovskij with Gor'kij.
A. Benois began telling Zdanevich how much he loved and respected
him, and Gor 'kij began telling Majakovskij the same . . . . " (Katanjan
1985, 526). D. Burljuk recollects: "Donon had a grand reception, to
which all artistic Petrograd was invited. Miljukov, the Minister of
Foreign Affairs, Rodichev, the Minister for Relations with Finland, sat
next to one another in the middle of the most lengthy table. In the
places of hosts sat Gor'kij, the Chairman of the Commission for the
Preservation of Monuments, and the tall, dark-complexioned, brilliant
Finish artist Gallen Rissojanen [Burljuk here contaminates the names of
A. Gallen-Kallela and O. Rissanen-BJ], the writer Bunin, Konstantin
Somov, Aleksandr Benois and others. Speechs were devided over supper.
Gor'kij didn't deliver one . . . . Gor 'kij was jolly, made jokes, but in his
witticisms were carping and peevishness (decent wine and the ever
weakening health of the artist.)" (Burljuk 1973.) 1. Bunin recollects in
horror Majakovskij's central role, noting that everything he saw in
Petrograd at the time "harmoniously and significantly was linked with
the Homeric disgracefulness poured out at this banquet." Bunin
described how "Majakovskij dominated everyone," shouting cat-calls at
all the speakers, including the Minister of Foreign Affairs Miljukov.
"But then the French Ambassador rose. Obviously, he was quite con­
vinced that the Russian hooligan would give up before him. He couldn't
have been more wrong! Majakovskij instantly drowned him out with an
even greater stentorian roar. As if that wasn't enough, the hall immedi­
ately broke into a wild and senseless fury: Majakovskij's comrades-in­
arms also began to shout, stomp their boots on the floor, beat their fists
on the table, to laugh, howl, scream, and grunt." (Bunin 1950, 53-54.)
Bunin's memoirs are supported by the newspaper account: "The atmos­
phere, which became more and more heated, created ever newer ora­
tors, and frequently a bold Futurist leapt on the table and tried to drown
out the noise with all the strength of his lungs" (Hufvudstadsbladet,
April 25, 1917) . After midnight the "celebration" was moved to the
nightclub "Stopping-place of Actors" [Prival Komediantov] , recalls
Burljuk (1973).
81. Lenin arrived in Petrograd the evening of April 3 (16), 1917, so that
Brik, obviously, went directly from the reception to the Finland Station.
C O M M E N TA R I E S T O PAG E S
3 8 -43 I 2 8 3
82. C£ the newspaper accounts o f the days: "Kshesinskaja's Palace unex­
pectedly became Lenin's headquarters . . . . A crowd gathered below.
From time to time one of Lenin's 'disciples' would appear on the balcony,
at times his 'follower,' citizenness Kollontaj, would speak, who proved to
be the only one in the Congress of Deputies who was sympathetic to the
teachings of Communism. They made speeches that are bearable only in
the fresh air." (Novoe vremja, April 6 [19], 1 917.)
83. "To Himself the Beloved Author Dedicates These Lines."
84. I.e., the question of "sound repetitions," to which Brik devoted his first
article in the field of poetics, which was published in the second issue of
Collections on the Theory ofPoetic Language (1917).
85. The collection To Two (1918). On Kuzmin and Majakovskij see
Seleznev 1989.
86. Jurij Jurkun (1893-1938), a prose writer, the author of Swedish Gloves
(1914) and other books, was Kuzmin's life-long companion. See
Sudejkin's 1916 portrait of him in Pamjatniki kuttury 1989, 136. He was
repressed under Stalin.
87. The artist Vladimir Ivanovich Kozlinskij (1891-1967) studied in 19111917 in the Higher Artistic School of the Academy of Arts. He was the
author of several drawings in the album Heroes and Victims of the
Revolution, 1918, with captions by Majakovskij.
88. On May 2, 1919 Stanislav Gurvic-Gurskij delivered a lecture in the
Moscow Linguistic Circle "On Abbreviations in Factory Terminology
(On the Material from One Enterprise)," which was attended by
Jakobson, Bogatyrev, and Majakovskij, among others.
89. C£ L. Ju. Brik's autobiographical note: "Majakovskij wouldn't let his part­
ners at cards recollect themselves. He would break millioneers with lim­
its, he would bluff, make jokes, declame. And he would get up from the
table only with the winnings." (Archive of L.Ju. Brik.)
90. Chcrnin dc fcr in the Briks' salon entered Russian poetry; c£ K.
Bo\ 'shakov's p ocm "Lc
chcmin de fer," dated March 1915 and dcdicat-
2 8 4 I MY F U TU R I S T Y E A R S
ed to L.]u. Brik (the collection Solnee n a izlete [Sunset], Moscow, 1916).
Cf. also Jakobson's jocular verses: "Chemin de fer! pljus banque ouvertl
milej Volode vsex affairs'! Shestnadcat' rasl pokryl on nasi i vse my
vozopili 'pass''! Brosaet v zhar! nash Vol 'demar,! napilsja krov'ju kak
komar.! Shestnadcat' raz... " (TR). In Jakobson's article "The Influence
of the Revolution on the Russian Language," he lists the word "vikzhel'"
as an example of a new abbreviation: "vikzhel' (All-Russian Executive
Committee of Railwaymen) is also used with the meaning of the card
game 'chemin de fer,' a particularly complex metonymy, connected not
with the metaphoric name of the game, but with the same word in its
primary meaning," and vikzhel'nut' as a verbal neologism ending in -nut'
with a humorous tinge (1921a, 1 1 , 5).
9 1 . The reference is to the summer of 1919.
92. The reference is to a game of bouts-rimes at the Briks' in May 1919.
Jakobson's poem begins with the words: "When we to Voronezh do go,!
We'll get as drunk as a cobbler." See poem 10, p. 256, and Katanjan 1975.
93. Brik graduated from the Juridical Faculty of Moscow University in
1911. His thesis, on the theme of "Solitary Confinement," and other
documents relating to his studies are preserved in the Central State
Historical Archive in Moscow (£ 418, op. 320, d. 174; I am grateful to
A.V. Valjuzhenich for this information).
94. C£ Jakobson's afterword to the reprinted edition of Brik's essays on
poetics: "During the summer of 1919, spent in Puskino, Brik became
greatly interested in the sociological aspect of pictorial art. His main
concern was the development of two simultaneous trends, French
impressionism and the Russian Itinerant artists. Brik's interpretation of
Zola's L'(Euvre, of Perov's and Kramskoj's writings and biographies, and
of Russian art reviews published in the late nineteenth century was
indeed illuminating, and such problems as art production and consump­
tion, demand and supply, the art market and painters' competition were
clearly sketched. These views, immediately picked up and absorbed by
V. Shklovskij, later underlay some of the latter's reasonings on literature,
art, and their social prerequisites after Shklovskij loudly repudiated his
so-called 'formalist' creed." (1964, 79-80.)
C O M M E N TA R I E S TO PAG E S
43-48 / 285
95. Osip Borisovich Rumer (1883-1954) was a philologist and translator of
both Mickiewicz and Omar Khayyam.
96. In this book Shklovskij turns to the All-Russian Central Executive
Committee (VCIK) with a request for permission to return to Russia.
97. The date is verified by a certificate of the Political Division of the
Moscow GPU, according to which Brik entered the organization on June
8, 1920 (Archive of L. Ju. Brik).
98. On the similarities between Blok's poem "The Terrible World" ("Night,
a street, a lamppost, a drugstore") and Majakovskij's long poem Man, see
Stahlberger 1 964, 62-63.
99. The reading at the poet's V. Amari (M. Cetlin) took place at the end of
January, 1 918, in the company of K. Bal'mont, Vjacheslav Ivanov,
Andrej Belyj, Ju. Baltrushajtis, D. Burljuk, V. Kamenskij, I. Erenburg,
v. Xodasevich, M. Cvetaeva, B. Pasternak, A. Tolstoj , P. Antokol'skij , V.
Inber and others. The newspaper Myst (January 28, 1918) has an
account of the enthusiastic reaction of the representatives of the older
generation to Majakovskij's poem. Various participants in the evening
have written memoirs about the reading (see Katanjan 1985, 138-139).
100. C£ the reminiscences of A. Chicherin: "Belyj delivered an empassioned
speech about Majakovskij's poetic talent and literary style. In passing, he
said that after the Symbolists, Majakovskij was the greatest Russian poet
since he was speaking his own, unexpectedly new word." (Katanjan
1985, 140.)
101. Elsa and her mother lived on Golikovskij Lane.
102. The Cafe of Poets, which opened in fall of 1917, continued the old
futurist tradition from the Stray Dog Cafe and the Stopping-Place of
Actors. Immediately after moving to Moscow in the beginning of
December Majakovskij became a regular at the Cafe, which was located
at Nastas 'inskij Lane and the corner ofTverskaj St.
103. Amon!!; the numerous, short-lived anarchistic organizations was a group
called "i nstant sorialists."
2 8 6 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
104. Among the constant guests of the Cafe were anarchists, for whom the
place served as a "convenient secret rendezvous" (Spasskij 1940, 109).
Majakovskij's close friend L. A. Grinkrug, who was at the cafe almost
every evening, recalls: "Anarchists, who had occupied the neighboring
building of the former merchants' club on M. Dmitrovka, came quite
often. From time to time they created scandals by shooting their guns"
(from the Archive of B. Jangfeldt). The anarchists, from their side,
regarded the futurists as their allies, and the Gazeta Futuristov [Futurists'
Newspaper] , published in March 1918, figures in a list of anarchist
organs printed in their journal Revoljucionnoe tvorchestvo [Revolutionary
Creation] , I-II (1918). In the night of April 1 1-12, 1918 the Cheka car­
ried out raids on the strongholds of the Moscow anarchists; within two
days, no doubt in connection with this, the Cafe of Poets was closed.
105. "We'll wash the cities of the worlds / with the flood of a second deluge"
("Our March").
106. See footnote 109. The full text of the translation is given in the first edi­
tion of this book (B. Jangfeldt, ed. 1992, 126).
107. Vladimir Robertovich Gol'cshmidt, a "futurist of life," was one of the
organizers of the Cafe of Poets and a propounder of a philosophy of
"health and sun." His main contribution to the history of futurist
epatage was that he would break boards from the stage of the Cafe over
his head. Gol' cshmidt was closely tied to the anarchists. After the Cafe's
closing he ended up in the Far East, according to D. Burljuk; the latter
saw him for the last time in Japan.
108. On the poster for the evening it was announced that "brilliant transla­
tors will read brilliant translations of my [i.e., Majakovskij's] brilliant
poems: French, German, Bulgarian" (Katanjan 1985, 145). Jakobson
had translated into French fragments of A Cloud in Trousers (see B.
Jangfeldt, ed. 1992, 125-26) and "Our March." In a conversation with
Stephen Rudy, Jakobson stated that in his absence P. Bogatyrev read
his translations (letter of S. Rudy to B. Jangfeldt, Dec., 1 1 , 1989).
Jakobson's absence wa� explained by the fact that in the spring of 1918
he hid in the countryside for several months in order to avoid arrest for
his membership in the Kadet party (see footnote 78). V. Nejshtadt also
read his German translation of Majakovskij at the Cafe of Poets (see
the memoirs of Nejshtadt cited in Sharir 19R9, (6).
C O M M E N TA RI E S TO PAG E S
48-50
/
287
109. Cf. the inexact text in Nejshtadt's memoirs (1940, 104). See the analysis
of Jakobson's translation in Shapir 1989, as well as Vallier 1987.
Nejshtadt and Jakobson were friends from childhood and schoolmates
at the university. He met in the summer of 1906, when they were neigh­
bors at the dacha: "I saw him in the garden," recalls Nejshtadt, "with a
book in his hands. 'Boy, what are you reading?' 'Jules Verne's Black
India.'-'Is it interesting?'-'Oh, yes!' Thus we met. He gave me Black
India to read and I was charmed by it." (Shapir 1989, 66.)
110. The reference is to the poetess Natalija Poplavskaja, the sister of the poet
Boris Poplavskij (1903-1935).
111. Jakobson's memoirs shed new light on the instant departure of Burljuk
from Moscow after the Cheka's raid on the anarchists in April 1918. The
fate of his older brother Nikolaj (b. 1890) is unclear; according to
Markov, it is most likely that he served in the White Army and was
killed in 1920 (Markov 1968, 318, 413). Vladimir Burljuk (b. 1886) is
believed to have died in 1917.
1 12. Jacques is Jakov L 'vovich Izrailevich, who together with his brother
Aleksandr associated with the Briks and Majakovskij in the 1910's. He
is mentioned in a letter of Majakovskij to L. Ju. Brik of April 1918. He
was also a regular at the Stray Dog Cafe. See Pamjatniki kuttury 1984,
249, as well as his portrait by Sudejkin (Kogan 1974, 138).
113. Cf. L.Ju. Brik's unpublished memoirs: "After the filming in Moscow [the
reference is to work on "Shackled by Film" in June 1918-B.].] we
returned to Petrograd and moved to the dacha (a family pension) in
Levashovo. There I received yet another letter from I[zrailevich]. In
Moscow I had received a multitude of them, so lengthy that I didn't read
them to the end, and it didn't enter my head to answer even one of them,
let alone to tell Volodja about I[zrailevich] . Now a letter had been sent
to the dacha, full of reproaches and demanding an immediate meeting.
Volodja read it and in a delirium ofjealousy totally incomprehensible to
me rushed off to Petrograd. Osja and I also went. We were at home
whcn Volodja came and told us that he had met 1. on the street (it had
to he I in puhl ic]), that the latter flung himself at him and they started
tl�htin�. Thl' poli cl' ll1ana�cd to hreak them up, took them both to the
station, and 1 . told t hl' lll to call Cor'kij, whosc frequent �uest I was, and
288
/ MY F U T U R I ST Y E A R S
they released them both. Volodja was quite gloomy as he related all this
and showed us his fists, which were all black and blue, so hard had he
been hitting I." ("That's the Way it Was.") The enmity of Majakovskij
toward Gor'kij actually goes back to the spring of 1918, when Gor'kij
played a dubious role in spreaking rumors that Majakovskij had venere­
al disease. In this drama both Ja.L. Izrailevich and K.1. Chukovskij took
part (see L.Ju. Brik's letter to Gor 'kij in this regard in MajakovskijlBrik,
1986, 244). On the relations between Majakovskij and Gor'kij see also
Aseev 1983, 502-505, and Babkin 1984, 306-309. Both memorists
underscore Gor'kij's unwillingness to meet Majakovskij or even hear
about him at the end of the 1920's.
114. Cf. Jakobson's recollections of 1956: "I was on very good terms with
Gor'kij, and in Petersburg at the end of 1919 (I was reading a lecture
there [see p. 80 above]) I was at his place often. I was usually with Viktor
Borisovich Shklovskij at Gor 'kij's, and in general the name of
Majakovskij was not in favor there. Later, I recall, Gor 'kij, when he
came to Prague and Berlin (I met with him both in Prague and in
Berlin-in Saarow), asked me to write something for the journal Beseda.
And at this point he and I quarreled. He didn't want me to give him any­
thing about Majakovskij." (1956a.)
115. Jakov Grigor 'evich Bljumkin (1892?-1929) was a Chekist, a Left
Socialist Revolutionary, and the assassin of the German ambassador
Mirbach (summer 1918). Sentenced to death, but pardoned. He
returned to the Cheka, became one ofTrockij's retinue; executed in 1929
for his links to Trockij. Cf. Jakobson's recollections of 1956: "at the next
table sat a man who soon joined us at our table, the murderer of
Mirbach-Bljumkin-and if I 'm not mistaken, Vadim Shershenevich.
. . . Majakovskij began speaking about the fact that it was necessary to
put an end to the cult of Gor 'kij: 'Let's go, you Bljumkin and I, and
speak out against Gor'kij.' This didn't mean that they should go imme­
diately and speak; it was a form of bravado. Then he started making
wicked jokes on Gor'kij's account." (1956a; the episode is also related in
Brown 1973, 71.) Bljumkin's behavior in the presence of Majakovskij
and Jakobson was typical of him. In a similar way he waved a revolver at
Osip Mandel'shtam several times, threatening to kill him. Cf. the mem­
oirs of N. Mandel'shtam about a "skirmish" between Mandel'shtam and
Bljumkin, when the poet spoke out against Bljumkin's Chekist activities:
C O M M E N TA RI E S TO PAG E S
5 0-52
/
289
"Bljumkin said he would not tolerate any interference in his business and
that he would shoot M. too if he dared to 'meddle.' It appeares that
Bljumkin threatened M. with his revolver during this first argument
between them. This was something Bljumkin did at the slightest provo­
cation - even, I was told, at home with his family. . . . In M.'s opinion,
Bljumkin, terrible as he was, was by no means an utter savage. M. always
said that Bljumkin never had any intention of killing him. . . .
Brandishing a revolver, shouting and raving like one possessed, Bljumkin
was simply indulging his temperament and his love of external effects­
he was by nature a terrorist of the flamboyant type which had existed in
Russia before the Revolution." (Mandelstam 1970, 105-6.)
116. V.A. Antonov-Ovseenko (1884-1938) was the Soviet ambassador to
Czechoslovakia in 1924-1929. Repressed under Stalin (see below). On
the bliny dinner at Jakobson's see the memoirs ofJaroslav Seifert. Seifert
also mentions receptions at the Soviet Embassy: "There were mainly
unusual people there, and among them the brilliant personality of the
ambassador, Antonov-Ovseenko, whom we immediately took a liking
to. Roman Jakobson was also there. He came up to us and was instant­
ly our friend. And we-also right away-adopted him as one of our
own." (Seifert 1983, 198.)
1 17. The evening of the "Selection of the King of Poetry" took place on
February 27, 1918 in the Polytechnical Museum. According to V.
Kamenskij, Severjanin was chosen after an "underhanded" counting of
the votes (1974).
118. "A Soviet Alphabet" was written in the second half of September, 1919,
and appeared in October of that year. C£ Majakovskij's recollections: "It
was written as a parody on an old pornographic alphabet. . . . It was writ­
ten for use by the army. There were witticisms there that weren't fit for
salons, but which went quite well in the trenches. . . . After writing the
book I took it to the Central Printing House to have it typed. There was
a typist there who hadn't yet been purged, who told me with great mal­
ice: 'Better I should lose my job than type this filth.' So it started.
Further on, no one wanted to print the book. . . . I had to publish it
myself: . . . I made three to five thousand copies by hand and carried the
whole wei�ht on my back to distribute it. This was genuine work by
hand at the time of the most ominous encirclement of the Soviet
290
/ MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
Union." (A speech at the House of the Komsomol on March 25, 1930;
PSS 12, 428-29.)
1 19. The reference is to the poster "Raek" dated December 10, 1919 (PSS 4,
32). It is interesting that the text has the rhyme word "Voronezh," which
figures in the game of bouts-rimes that Jakobson and Majakovskij took
part in in May of the same year. (See poem 10 on p. 256 above.)
120. LJu. Brik hints at the fact that Majakovskij's work at ROSTA was to a
significant degree precisely a "source of earnings" for him. Cf her letter
to the poet of November 17, 1921, where she proposes that he become
the Moscow representative of "a certain very important capitalist" in
Riga, who was ready to publish the books of the Futurists in Latvia: "He
would like someone in Moscow to take exclusive responsibility for that.
He proposes to supply that person with provisions and money. I would
like you to agree to be that person, Volosik-in the first place, it's very
interesting, and in the second place it would give you the possibility of
giving up the posters completely." (Jangfeldt, ed. 198211986, 74.)
121. "In what is strength?-In this cocoa" is a quotation from an advertising
jingle from the Tea Board (Chaeupravlenie) in 1924. Jakobson examines
the question of the interrelation of lyrics and advertisement texts in
Majakovskij's work in his essay "New Lines by Majakovskij" (Jakobson
1956, 198 f£).
122. The pro-German government of Hetman Pavel Skoropadsky
(1873-1945) existed from the end of April until November 1918. In
December Skoropadsky fled to Germany. During the entire summer
there were negotiations underway in Kiev between the government of
the R.S.F.S.R. and the Hetman's Ukrainian government.
123. Xristian Georgievich Rakovskij (1873-1941) played a key role in the
Bolsheviks' fight against the efforts of the Ukraine to create a govern­
ment independent from the R.S.F.S.R. and in 1919 headed the Soviet
governments established briefly there. In the trials of 1938 Rakovskij
was sentenced to twenty years in prison; in 1941 he was sentenced in
absentia to be shot . .
C O M M E N TA R I E S TO PAG E S
52-55
/
291
124. In the beginning of July the Russian delegation, with Rakovskij at its
head, gave the Ukrainian part of the commission a map with the borders
of the Ukraine indicated. This map represented "the maximum of the
concessions that the Russian delegation can make" (Izvestija, 1918: 141
[405], July 8th). Within a month's time Rakovskij reported that "the
work of the peace conference is going more slowly than we would wish.
The main question-that of borders-is still not decided, though we
have devoted more than seventeen sessions to it" (ibid., 1918: 165 [429],
August 4th).
125. Vladimir Maksimovich Friche (1870-1929) was a writer, a Marxist, and
for a certain time after the October revolution the commissar of foreign
affairs under the Moscow Soviet. He played a leading role in the attacks
on the artistic and literary avant-garde that began in 1919.
126. Ol"ga Davydovna Kameneva (1883-1941), Trockij's sister and the wife
of Kamenev, was the head of the Theatrical Division of the People's
Commissariat of Enlightenment. She was repressed under Stalin. On
Jakobson's episode with typhus, cf the chapter devoted to him in
Shklovskij's Third Factory: "Remember the nightmare you had during
your bout of typhus? In the nightmare you had lost your head. (Typhus
patients always make this claim.) In the nightmare, you were being tried
for having betrayed science. And I condemned you to death."
(Shklovskij 1926, 66.)
127. Cf the announcement in the paper Art (1919: 3,12) about the establish­
ment in IZO of a Collegium for the preparation of an Encyclopedia of
Visual Arts, including "both essays of a general nature on questions of
the Visual Arts, as well as terminology and biomonographs of artists,
sculptors and architects."
128. The artist Aleksandr Vasil"evich Shevchenko (1882-1948).
129. The artist V.F. Franketti, a member of the directors of the society
"Moscow Salon," was chosen in spring 1919 to be a member of the
Moscow Collegium of IZO, together with A.M. Rodchenko and V.M.
Strzhcminskij. An article "V.F. Franketti" was planned in the series of
ll1onoKral'hs ahou t artists issued by the publishing section of IZO (Art,
1 '.1 1 9:
4,22,2).
2 9 2 I MY F UTURIST YEARS
130. In February 1919 a monograph entitled Kandinskij appeared, written by
the artist himself
131 . The Petrograd newspaper Art ofthe Commune appeared from December
1918 until April 1919.
132. Konstantin Andreevich Umanskij (1901-1945). The first issue of the
newspaper Art appeared in April 1919. Jakobson published two essays
there: "Futurism" (1919: 7, 2.8) and "The Tasks of Artistic Propaganda"
(1919: 8, 5.9), both of which are included in the present volume in
English translation. The book Jakobson refers to is: Konstantin
Umansky, Neue Kunst in Russland 1914-1919 (1920).
133. A one-volume Everything Composed by Viktor Xlebnikov was included in
a list of editions by the publisher IMO on July 18, 1919, and on August
28th of the same year Jakobson signed a contract with IMO for the pref­
ace to this edition (see footnote 169).
134. "Xlebnikov's Testament" was published in no. 6 of The Unpublished
Xlebnikov (Moscow, 1928); it is republished as an appendix to the
reprint edition of Xlebnikov's works (SP, 3, 529-30).
135. The reference is to the collection Creations, 1906-1908 (1914, edited by
David Burljuk) and the collection Stopgap (1913). C£ Xlebnikov's "open
letter," presumably dated 1914: "In the collections First Volume of the
Poems of V. Xlebnikov, Stopgap, and The Journal of the Russian Futurists,
David and Nikolaj Burljuk continue to publish poems under my name
that are worthless, and in addition make changes in them. . . . I demand
. . . that the pages from the collection Stopgap containing my poem
'Infinity' be destroyed." (SP 5, 257.)
136. Antonina (Tonja) Gumilina (1895-1918) was an artist and a member of
the Knave of Diamonds group. At her only solo exhibition, organized by
IZO, seventy-three watercolors were shown. Xardzhiev (1981, 281-82)
dates the exhibition 1920. However, a joint visit to the exhibition by
Jakobson and Xlebnikov could have taken place only in 1919, in view of
the fact that Xlebnikov left Moscow in April of that year. On Gumilina
see below and the article "In Memory of Gumilina" in Sredi kollek­
cionerov, 1922: 3, 34-37.
C OM M ENTARIE S T O PAGE S 5 5 -5 9 / 2 9 3
137. Xlebnikov left Moscow a t the end o f April 1919.
138. The Newest Russian Poetry. A First Sketch (Prague, 1921). (The book is
dated May, 1919.) See the reviews by G. V inokur (1921), V.
Zhirmunskij (1921), B. Tomashevskij (1921) and V. Vinogradov (1922).
139. The meeting took place on May 11, 1919. The lecture was entitled "On
the Poetic Language of Xlebnikov's Works. " Present were members of
the Moscow Linguistic Circle (P.G. Bogatyrev, a.M. Brik, A. A. Buslaev,
F.M.Vermel', G.O. Vinokur, V.I.Nejshtadt, o.B. Rumer, P.P. Sveshnikov),
as well as specially invited guests-L.Ju. Brik and V A. Buslaev. In the
rough draft of his memoirs about Majakovskij, Nejshtadt recalls:
"Majakovskij attended Jakobson's lecture on Xlebnikov (11.V.I919). He
was supposed to leave for Petrograd on the 9th, but put off the trip, since
he was very interested in this lecture, about which he inquired. " (Cited
according to Shapir 1990, where the minutes of the meeting are pub­
lished.) At the end of November or beginning of December of the same
year Jakobson presented the same lecture at the Petrograd House of
Writers, and in a year's time-at a meeting of OPOJAZ in Petrograd
(Jakobson 1987, 411).
140. The verses are from the poem "Sisters-Lightening " (2nd WIng,
"Execution Square "):
From the beehive of the street
Bullets like bees.
The chairs shake.
The happy one turns pale.
Along the long streets, like a flight of bullets,
Against the machine gun
Hits and harvests
With bullets the leafY wreath,
Rottens
The shepherd's day.
Jakobson cites these verses in The Newest Russian Poetry as "an example
of a complex composition of analogies": "Here, in the first two lines
there is established a parallelism in sound imagery (ulica 'street' ulej
'beehive', puli 'bullets' - pchely 'bees'), in which, moreover, the subject of
the first line is juxtaposed to the subject of the second, while the object
of the first is linked to the object of the second by contiguity. In the fifth
line there is a parallelism in sound imagery between the subject of the
-
2 9 4 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
first and second lines (po ulice 'along the street' - pulipolet 'a flight of bul­
lets'). " (Jakobson 1921, 41; note the variant reading in the fifth line,
which Jakobson gives as po ulice 'along the street', whereas Xlebnikov's
SP has po ulicam 'along the streets.') These verses from "Sisters­
Lightening " so fascinated Jakobson that he translated them into Czech;
see Jangfeldt, ed. 1992, 126. In Xlebnikov 1968-1972 (3, 380), the edi­
tors note that the first two parts of the poem "were conveyed to R.
Jakobson at the beginning of 1 919."
141. The publisher IMO, where Everything Composed by Viktor Xlebnikov was
supposed to appear, was financed by IZO.
142. Majakovskij's necrology of Xlebnikov was published in the journal
Krasnaja nov' (1922: 4). The necrology concludes with the words: " After
Xlebnikov's death, there appeared in various journals and newspapers
articles about him full of sympathy and understanding. I have read these
articles with disgust. When will this comedy of posthumous kindness
finally end? Where were those writers when Xlebnikov, abused by his
critics, wandered about Russia alive? I know some still living who may
not be his equals, but are neglected as much as he was. Let us finally
drop this reverence for hundred-year anniversaries, this honoring of
posthumous publications! Let us have articles about the living! Let us
have bread for the living! Let us have paper for the living! " (PSS 12, 28;
cited from the translation by]. Rosengrant in E.]. Brown, ed., 1973, 88.)
143. In the last months of his life Xlebnikov lived at the artist's Petr Miturich
(1887-1956), who led the ill poet to quarrel with his old friends.
Xlebnikov died on June 28, 1 922 in the village of Santalovo. In August
Miturich wrote Majakovskij a letter in which he accused him of appro­
priating Xlebnikov's manuscripts. (The letter became known after the
Nichevoki printed it as an appendix to the collection Dog's Box, 1922; it
was reprinted as an introduction to Al'vek's brochure Xlebnikov's
Hangers-On, 1927.) In October 1922 G.o. V inokur and Jakobson attest­
ed to Majakovskij's innocence on a page of the poet's notebook. Jakobson
testified as follows: "With the following I hereby attest that v.v.
Majakovskij commissioned me to edit the Collected Works of Xlebnikov in
spring of 1919 and gave me in that connection a series of Xlebnikov's
manuscripts. In view of the fact that the edition was not realized, the
materials prepared for publication, together with other materials of the
COMM ENTARI E S TO PAG E S 5 9 - 6 1 / 2 9 5
publisher IMO were kept by me and before m y departure abroad in spring
of 1920 were conveyed in toto by me for preservation in the archive of
the Moscow Linguistic Circle to the secretary of the Circle, G.O.
Vinokur, about which fact I informed O.M. Brik at the time. The man­
uscripts were locked up in the archive of the Circle and remain there
untouched to the present day. The manuscripts in the Circle were not
given out to anyone. R. Jakobson. October 28, 1922 " (Katanjan 1985,
550, where other details of this "affair " are adduced.) Majakovskij him­
self thought that Jakobson had taken the manuscripts with him to
Prague, as he writes in his necrology of Xlebnikov (PSS 12, 27).
144. In 1913 D. Burljuk gave a lecture on "Pushkin and Xlebnikov" several
times, i.e., November 3rd in the Tenishev School in Petersburg and
November 1 1th in the Polytechnical Museum in Moscow. C£ the news­
paper account of the first: "Pushkin has grown old for us, and it is
enough for us to get to know him as adolescents. There is genuine depth
in Pushkin only in 'Egyptian Nights'; all the rest is shallow. We-the
lecturer sums up to the loud laughter of the audience-find ourselves in
relation to Pushkin at a right angle. Xlebnikov is completely different.
He is a strong, unusual, colossal, genius of a poet, and this is felt not only
by those who are capable of appreciating a vase, apart from the idea of
what has been poured into it. " (Rech', November 4, 1913.)
145.The reading took place no earlier than March, when the collection had
not yet been titled My Sister Life, and no later than May, 1919, when
Majakovskij included Pasternak's book in a list of proposed editions to
be published by IMO. (Pasternak's receipt of August 29, 1919 for 9,000
roubles for "my book of poems My Sister Life, which has been sold to the
publisher IMO" is preserved in the archive of LJu. Brik.) After the read­
ing at the Briks', Pasternak presented L. Ju. Brik with a manuscript of
the collection specially prepared for her, with the inscription: "This copy,
which behaved so shamefully, is written for Lili Brik, with best feelings
for her, devotedly B.Pasternak" (archive of LJu. Brik). On this manu­
script see footnote 1 to letter 6 of Jakobson to Elsa Triolet from October
11, 1920 (p. 320 in the present edition). Cf. also Pasternak's own recol­
lections of this reading: ". .. reading first to Majakovskij the poems from
My Sister, I heard from him ten times more than I counted on hearing
from anyone" (Pasternak 1 985, 215). L.Ju. Brik recalls Majakovskij's
enthusiastic attitude to Pasternak's poetry: "Majakovskij was in love with
2 9 6 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
the enticing, practically mysterious Pasternak. He knew him by heart,
for many years always read Above the Barriers, Themes and Variations, My
Sister Life. . . . One should add here the whole of Pasternak. For me all
his poems are meetings with Majakovskij. " (Brik 1963, 342, 344.)
146. Jakobson has in mind the following lines from his essay "On a
Generation that Squandered Its Poets": "Modern Russian poetry after
1910 is largely defined by these names [Xlebnikov and Majakovskij].
The verse of Aseev and Sel'vinskij is bright indeed, but it is a reflected
light. They do not determine but reflect the spirit of the times. Their
magnitude is a derivative quantity. Pasternak's books and perhaps those
of Mandel'shtam are remarkable, but theirs is chamber verse: new cre­
ation will not be kindled by it. The heart of a generation cannot take fire
with such verses because they do not shatter the boundaries of the pre­
sent. " (Jakobson 1931, 9; c£ p. 211 above.)
147. Boris Fedorovich Malkin (1891-1938), a Left Socialist Revolutionary,
from August to November 1917 a member of the All-Russian Central
Executive Committee (VCIK) , in May 1918 joined the Bolshevik party,
in 1918-21 was head of the Central Publishing House, in 1921-22-of
the Ural State Publishing House. One can assume that Jakobson is
referring here to the book for IMO of August 29, 1919, when the receipts
mentioned in footnote 169 below were signed.
148. From the poem Man.
149. "Randbemerkungen zur Prosa des Dichters Pasternak, " Slavische
Rundschau 7, 1935 (c£ the translation in Jakobson 1987, 301-17:
"Marginal Notes on the Prose of the Poet Pasternak" ).
150. Safe Conductin the Czech translation of Svatav:i Pirkov:i-Jakobson with
a postscript by R. Jakobson was published by Manes in December 1935.
In the same year the Czech poet Josef Hora (1891-1945) published his
Czech translations of Pasternak's poetry (Melantrich Publishers). C£
Pasternak's poem ''All accumulations and debts . . ." (1936), with the line:
"I just came out as a book in Prague. . . . " In a letter to Josef Hora (Nov.
15, 1935) Pasternak Wrote about the strong impression this translation
made on him: "I am unable to judge the objective merits of your trans­
lations. I do not know how they sound to the Czech ear and whether
C O M MENTARI E S TO PAG E S 6 2 - 6 3 / 2 9 7
they have much to offer the Czech reader. But i n an inexplicable way
they gave me an immense amount. . .. Why does your collection hold such
power over me? Let me say, without exaggerating: there wafts from it
such a poetic freshness that its very presence in the room has become for
me a central experience. It's as if what served you as the original had
never been published, and had only been silently carried in me as an
assumption. And your translations are the first manifestation of that, not
even in Czech, but in any human language. " Further Pasternak writes:
"having already dispatched my last letter [of October 14, 1935] I
remembered suddenly that I had not conveyed my greetings to Roman
Jakobson, with whom you are acquainted. I have never forgotten my own
bright, even if short-lived, acquaintance with him. From all my soul I
wish him health and happiness. We frequently remember him here with
the same and unchangeable warmth. If there is anything in my letter
that you can't make out (I write in an impermissible way for a writer, dis­
connected and verbose)-show it to R.O. [Jakobson], and he will cor­
rect my inadequacies, i.e. will give you supplementary explanations, if
they are needed. " ( Vaprosy literatury, 1979:7, 1 84.)
151. C£ JakobsoniPomorska 1983, 143.
152. Virezslav Nezval (1900-1951), Jaroslav Seifert (1901-1987), Vladislav
Vancura (1891-1942), Konstantin Biebl (1898-1951). Jakobson's close
and warm ties with the Czech avant-garde and scholarly world are
attested to in the small Festschrift devoted to him in 1939: RomanU
Jakobsonovi. Pozdrav a dikUvzddni. It included, i.a., Nezval's poems
"Roman Jakobson" and "Dopis Romanu Jakobsonovi," Arne Novak's
"Tvurci znalec staroceskeho basnictvi, " and the anonymous poem
"Sl6vce M. " See also the memoirs of]. Seifert (1985, 297-305, and foot­
note 1 1 6 here) and V. Nezval (1978, 154-56), as well as K. Pomorska's
"Postscript " to JakobsoniPomorska 1983, 1 76-79.
153. Julian Tuwim (1894-1953), Kazimierz Wierzynski (1 894-1969), Louis
Aragon (1896-1982).Jakobson met Tuwim and Wierzynski, who had
fled Poland, in New York during World War II (JakobsoniPomorska
1983, 179). His friendship with Elsa Triolet linked him to Aragon. See
his articles "0 slovesnom iskusstve Kazimira Vezhin 'skogo" and "Le
Metalangage d' Aragon" (SW III).
2 9 8 / MY F U T U RI ST Y E A R S
154.Gerasim Davidovich and Evgenija Grigor'evna Gurjan.
155. F.N. Afremov, one of the founding members of the Moscow Linguistic
Circle.
156. Cf.A SentimentalJourney: "He took me into the archive, locked me in,
and said: If there's a search at night, rustle, and say that you're a piece of
paper" (Shklovskij 1923, 216). This occurred at the beginning of fall,
1918. One must assume, along with the commentator to Shklovskij's
book The Hamburg Reckoning that Jakobson is also the "comrade philol­
ogist " with whom Shklovskij stayed later (Shklovskij 1990, 503).
157. InA Sentimentaljourney, the person hiding in the bushes by the Church
of Christ the Saviour is identified as "a certain officer, who had escaped
from Jaroslavl" . . . after the uprising [of the Left Socialist
Revolutionaries in the summer of 1918] . " (Shklovskij 1923, 2 13.)
158. C£ Shklovskij's account: "I ended up at a comrade's (who didn't have
anything to do with politics), dyed my hair, which came out violet. We
had a good laugh. I had to shave my head. I couldn't spend the night at
his place." (Shklovskij 1923, 216.)
159. In Shklovskij's account the document was signed not by Trockij, but by
Sverdlov, and not at the request of L.Rejsner, but of M. Gor'kij: "I went
to Aleksej Maksimovich [Gor'kij], who wrote a letter to Jakov Sverdlov.
. . . Sverdlov received me without suspicion. I told him I wasn't a W hite
and he didn't interrogate me. He gave me a letter on an official form of
the Central Executive Committee and in the letter he asked that the
Shklovskij case be closed. " (Shklovskij 1923, 243.) A different story
relates to Larisa Rejsner: she had asked him to "liberate " her husband,
Fedor Raskol"nikov, who had been imprisoned in Reval. This proved to
be unnecessary-"the English traded him for something or other "-but
Shklovskij went to Petrograd "with some sort of fantastic document
signed by her " (ibid., 244).
,160. In February 1922 it was announced that 47 representatives of the party
of Socialist Revolutionaries had been arrested. Their trials began on June
8, 1922. In the middle of March 1922 Shklovskij fled to Finland, where
he lived for a while in the village of Raivola (now Roshrhino) near the
C O M M ENTA R I E S TO PAGE S 6 4 - 6 8 I 2 9 9
Russian-Finnish border (where the Finnish poetess Edith Sodergran
also lived at the time). The second part of A Sentimental Journey, ''A
Writing Table," was begun in May 1922 in Raivola (see Shklovskij 1923,
187) and completed in Berlin later in the same year.
161. Jurij Jakovlevich Bal'shin (1871-1938).
162. Majakovskij moved into Lubjanskij Thruway in the fall of 1919. C£
Jakobson's letter of Dec. 19, 1920 to Elsa Triolet, concerning the real
reason for the move: "By fall 1919 they had ceased living together,
Volodja moved in next door to me, and in the winter they broke up" (see
letter 1 1 , p. 127, in the present edition).
163. This first Pushkino summer is not mentioned in Katanjan's chronicle of
Majakovskij's life, but it was precisely during this summer that the dog
Shchen was found, about which L.]u. Brik writes in her book Shchen
(Molotov, 1942).
164. Lev Aleksandrovich Grinkrug (1889-1987), one of the closest friends of
Majakovskij and the Briks. On his biography see B. Jangfeldt, ed. 1986,
195.
165. C£ Jakobson's recollections: " In 1917 I undertook to analyze along these
lines a single text which was included in Kirsha Danilov's collection and
which stands on the boundary between lyrical and epic poetry. It was a
short specimen (twenty-one lines) of the remarkable cycle of poems on
grie£ I promised to contribute an article on the subject to the forthcom­
ing issue of the Collection on the Theory ofPoetic Language, which OPOJA Z
was preparing at the time. The issue appeared in 1 919, but without my
article, which I rightly considered as an immature sketch that needed
extension and revision in light of more precise principles of linguistic
analysis. I allowed this analysis of these twenty-one lines of the "Grief"
poem to ripen for half a century before using it in my monograph on
grammatical parallelism and its Russian facet, published in 1966 in the
American journal Language. Even this monograph is in my eyes only a
preliminary sketch." (Jakobson/Pomorska 1983, 102.)
f66. P. G. Bogatyrcv, Czuh Puppet Theater and Russian Folk Theater (1923).
.Iakohson's and Bogatyrcv's joint work on the t()lk theater began earlier
300
I
MY F UTURIST YEARS
than the summer of 1919: "we assiduously worked [on the manual of
Russian folk theater] during the winter months of 1919 at a temperature
of 240 F in our room on Lubjanskij Thruway, with ice in our inkwell
instead of ink, to the accompaniment of the sound of gun-fire from the
neighbouring street" (SW VII, 301).
167. The reference is to the artist Eduard Gustavovich Shiman (1885-1942),
who frequently visited the Briks, and the artist Antonina (Tonja)
Gumilina, whom Shiman married not long before her suicide in 1918.
168. In the screenplay How Are You? (PSS 11, 129-148),Majakovskij learns
from the newspaper about a girl who has shot herself with a revolver. It
was written at the end of 1926. L. Kuleshov was named its producer, but
the fum was never shot. The scenario has a clearly autobiographical
character and seems, as it were, a continuation of the poem About That.
See Jakobson's analysis of the scenario (1956).
169. On the estimate attached to the letter to Lunacharskij, there are the fol­
lowng signatures: "Members of the editorial board of IMO: V.V.
Majakovskij, O. Brik; for the secretary: R. Jakobson." The estimate is
dated July 18, 1919 (PSS 13, 403). Four receipts of Jakobson's dated
August 29,1919 are preserved stating that he received money from IMO
for 1) an article (two printer's sheets) "On the Revolutionary Verses of
V. Majakovskij " for a collection of essays on Majakovskij, Ivan. An Epic
of the Revolution, 2) translations of poems into French for the book
Russians, Germans, French (a collection of the latest Russian poets in
German, French and English translation), 3) the article "Futurism" (half
a printer's sheet) for the collection Art ofthe Commune, and 4) an intro­
ductory essay (in four printer's pages) "Approaches to Xlebnikov" for the
Collected Works of Xlebnikov. (Archive of B. Jangfeldt.) J akobson's article
on "Futurism" had already been published in the seventh issue of the
newspaper Iskusstvo for 1919 (August 2) and "Approaches to Xlebnikov"
was published as a separate book in Prague in 1921-The Newest
Russian Poetry. The other planned works were not realized. (See also
footnote 145 about Pasternak's receipt.)
,
170. C£ Jakobson's recollections of 1956: "Before he had finished the poem,
in the end of 1919, Vladimir Vladimirovich read 150,000,000 to
Shklovskij and me at my room on Lubjanskij Thruway. He asked us
C O M ME N TARI E S TO PAG E S 6 8 - 72 / 3 0 1
what we thought the weak passages were. We indicated some such pas­
sages to him, and he replied: 'What do you think, I don't see this? Of
course, there are many weak passages, but I see still other things you
don't see.'" (Jakobson 1956a.)
171. CE in the same concluding part of the poem: "Everyone sing and every­
one hear! the solemn hymn of the world. " See also Jakobson's analysis of
the "drum lines" in 150,000,000 (1971).
172. The reading took place at the Briks' apartment in the first half of
January, 1920 (Jakobson 1956a).
173. Vladimir Dmitrievich Bonch-Bruevich (1873-1955) was the organizer
and first director (1933-1939) of the Literary Museum in Moscow.
174. This textual variant was first published in the collection Smert' Vladimira
Majakovskogo (Jakobson 1931).
175. CE Lenin's note of May 6, 1 921, written after he had received the book
150,000,000 as a present from Majakovskij: "Nonsense, stupidity, double­
dyed stupidity and pretentiousness. In my opinion, only one out of ten
such things should be published and in no more than 1500 copies for
libraries and eccentrics. And Lunacharskij should be whipped for his
futurism. " (Kommunist, 1957: 18.) CEJakobson's discussion of the mat­
ter in JakobsoniPomorska 1983, 107-9, as well as Jangfeldt 1987.
176. CE Jakobson's reminiscences of 1956: "Vladimir Vladimirovich spoke
very passionately. He said that it was precisely thus that one should
understand the topic of the revolution, that it's naturalistic depiction
would be laughable and that it should be an epic. And this was quite
characteristic of him: that a genuine epic, a genuine long poem should
already be, first of all, about the future. . . . Lunacharskij compared
150,000,000 to Blok's The Twelve.' . . . In essence, the title 150,000,000
was a polemical reply to 'The Twelve.' It was not twelve who made the
revolution, but 150,000,000 ! . . . In general, his titles often had a
polemical character. In particular, his 'Letter to Tat'jana' was a unique
polemic with Tat'jana's answer to Onegin's letter. Once, when I asked
him: what are you up to? (this was quite a long time ago, before the rev­
olution), he answered: 'I'm rewriting world literature. I rewrote Onegin,
.
3 0 2 I MY F UTURIST YEARS
then I rewrote War and Peace, and now I'm rewriting Don Juan. But this
Don Juan, as you know, has not been preserved. . . . The theme of the
work was as follows: Don Juan was a man with one love, and all of his
attractions were coincidental, not genuine. Finally, the last-his true
love-turns out to be a personal tragedy." (1956a.)
177. Lunacharskij reacted critically several times to this thesis of the thoreti­
cians of the so-called Formal School, "who affirmed that honesty and art
are antipodes" (Krasnaja nov', 1 921: 1 ; Lunacharskij 1967, 253). Judging
from the evidence, O.M. Brik also spoke at this evening with the same
argumentation; in an essay of 1929, Lunacharskij ascribes to him the
words about "painted" and "marble columns" (Lunacharskij 1967a, 43).
In 1923, the People's Commissar recalled: "When Majakovskij read . . .
I asked him: did he write it sincerely or insincerely. He
didn't reply, since if he said 'sincerely,' he would have been attacked by
the Briks, who said that Pushkin himself wrote insincerely, and so on.
Brik irreligiously conflated two questions that night. He thought that it
was all the same to ask whether a column which was depicted in the
stage design was made of genuine stone or whether it was decorated
with paint, or to ask whether a poet is sincere when he writes or whether
he is lying, pretending." (Lunacharskij 1967, 662.)
150,000,000,
178. At the Theatrical School attached to the First State Theater of the
R.S .F
students was the famous linguist A.A. Reformackij (see Reformackij
1970, 14-15).
179. The first classes at The State Institute of Declamation began on
October 20, 1919. The Chairman of the Presidium of the Institute was
Y.K. Serezhnikov, and its teachers included, among others, Vjacheslav
Ivanov, P. Kogan, D. Ushakov, and Ju. Ajxenval 'd. Jakobson was named
a professor at the Institute in November 1919. (Vestnik teatra, 1919: 44,
Dec. 2-7.)
180. The opening ceremony of the Institute took place on November 27,
1919 (see the report in op. cit.).
1 8 1 . This reading took place later in January of 1920.
COMM ENTA R I E S TO PAG E S 72 - 7 6 / 3 0 3
182. Adol'f Grigor'evich Men 'shoj (Gaj) was a journalist and a worker in the
Commissariat of Foreign Affairs. In 1919-1920 he worked in ROSTA .
was later repressed. See p. 82 above.
183. C£ Jakobson's reminiscences of 1956: "Someone said that it was to a sig­
nificant extent a return to the tradition of Derzhavin's odes; someone
spoke about the connection of the poem to the byliny, someone spoke
about its link to Nekrasov, and so on. Vladimir Vladimirovich made
notes about whom said what, then said: 'I hear that here are Derzhavin,
Pushkin, Nekrasov, and so on. It is not the one, nor the other, nor the
third, but all of Russian literature and beside that something different.'"
(1956a.)
184. Similar images are often encountered in Majakovskij's poetry. C£, for
example, the poem "Bureaucratish" (1922): " . . . above me rise/ inacces­
sible forts,! the grey bastions of Soviet chancelleries"; or the poem
"Comrades, Let Me Share with You My Impressions of Paris and of
Monet" (1923): "Let us stand . . .! and further at a turtle's pace!! Next
stop:/ Station 'Member of the Collegium'/ Next stop:/ Exit of 'Two
Secretaries.' . . ." Cf. also the first draft of the poem The Fifth
International, which refers to Lenin and his secretary Fotieva: "You think
a secretary and a door bother me?/ I'll fly through their mass/ Like radi­
um.! Put around a hundred ranks of guards/ . . . No barrier will silence
me,! Even if they multiply the Kremlin's walls by four'! From the asphalt
I'll call out and deafen their ears/ with the roar of a song that's begun to
boil." (PSS 4, 306.)
185. In the film scenario "Forget About the Fireplace" (1927) and in the play
The Bedbug (1928), into which Majakovskij transferred the theme and
basic characters from the scenario (which has never been produced), the
author paraphrases the first stanza of a song based on Ja. Polonskij's
poem "The Recluse" in The Bedbug: "On Lunacharskij Street / I recall an
old house-/ with a marvelous wide staircase, / and an elegant window."
186. On the theme of the "revolution of the spirit" in Majakovskij see
Jangfeldt 1976, 51-71.
t87. From Majakovskij's poem "To Proletarian Poets" (1926).
3 0 4 I MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
188. The theme of the resurrection of the dead is particularly clear in the
poem About That: "Revive me,! if for nothing else,! becausel Russians,
I,! a poet,! cast off daily trash! to wait for you.! Revive mel if only for
that!! Revive me,! let me live my due!" Jakobson: "The poet's vision of
the coming resurrection of the dead is vitally linked with the materialis­
tic mysticism of Fedorov" (1931, 24; cf. p. 225 above).
189. Cf. Jakobson's reminiscence of how, in spring 1920, after his return from
Reval to Moscow, Majakovskij "made me repeat several times my some­
what confused remarks on the general theory of relativity": "the idea of
the liberation of energy, the problem of the time dimension, and the idea
that movement at the speed of light may actually be a reverse movement
in time-all these things fascinated Majakovskij. I'd seldom seen him so
interested and attentive." (1931, 24; cf. p. 225 in the present edition.)
190. From the poem "Iranian Song" (1921).
191. Cf. the reminiscences of the artist V.O. Roskin: "They lived together-the
poet and the theoretician. These were terrible years. The Jakobsons' for­
mer cook baked rolls and fed them something. In the evening they wrote,
in the day went to the I ZO Department of the People's Commissariat for
Enlightenment, which was located by Red Square in the building of a
former lyceum." (Jakobson 1987, 410.)
192. The play "So Who Spends Their Time Celebrating Holidays" was writ­
ten in March-April 1920 for the State Experimental Stage Studio of the
Theater of Satire. It was meant for the spectacles for May Day, but was
presented only in 1922 in the Club of the Military Artillery School
"The Shot."
193. The mentioned play, as well as two others written for the same occasion,
were first published in the almanac With Majakovskij (Moscow, 1934).
194. M. M. Pokrovskij (1896-1942) was the rector of Moscow University.
195. Cf. the article "The Influence of the Revolution on the Russian
Language": "Spirtoshvili-a Moscovite word from 1919, indicated a
secret seller of liquor and wine . . . since the majority of them were from
the Caucasus" (Jakobson 1921a, 22).
C O MMENTARI E S TO PA GES 7 7 - 8 0 / 3 0 5
196. See pp. 59-60 above.
197. Shklovskij's father was a mathematician. On Shklovskij's relatives see
A SentimentalJourney (Shklovskij 1923, 3 1 8 fO.
198. V. Shklovskij's "Letter to Roman Jakobson" begins with a reference to
this Nadja: "Nadja has gotten married." The letter was published in
Knizhnyj ugol, 1922: 8 and is reprinted in Shklovskij 1990, 145-46. The
person in question is Nadezhda Filippovna Fridljand, over whom
Shklovskij "had a duel with someone" in spring of 1920 (see Shklovskij
1990, 164, 503). Jakobson had known her since childhood. "Both of our
fathers were originally from Dvinsk and studied in the same class,"
recalls N. Fridljand (in a letter to B. Jangfeldt ofJune 28, 1990). "Their
friendship continued in their mature years. My first memory is of the
dacha our parents rented together. I was seven, Roma-eleven . . . . The
neighboring children would drop by, and we would have loud games.
Everyone, that is, except for Roma. He would sit at a table in the gar­
den, surrounded by books and notebooks, and to all our invitations to
'come play' would answer: 'later.' Or he wouldn't answer at all." N.
Fridljand saw Jakobson in Riga in the spring of 1919, and before his
departure for Prague he tried to convince her to come with him: "You
have to be crazy to stay in this country. You'll later regret this bitterly."
Nevertheless, N. Fridljand stayed in Russia and saw Jakobson again only
in 1976, when she immigrated to America. In 1989 she published a book
of stories and reminiscences about her artistic life (under the name N.
Kramova).
199. It has not been possible to ascertain when the lectures mentioned took
place in the House of Writers. Jakobson read his lecture on Brjusov, ''A
Model of Scholarly Charlatanism (on Brjusov's Science of Verse)," in the
Moscow Linguistic Circle on September 23, 1919, with Majakovskij
present (Shapir 1991, 52). Jakobson later set forth his objections to
Brjusov in an article "Brjusov's Versology and the Science of Verse"
(1922). On February 1, 1920 Jakobson delivered another lecture at
Chukovskij's on "the emancipation of poetry from semantics, on the
weakening of the referential element," this time at the House of Arts
(Chukovskij 1 979, 274), and on February 7th he gave a report to the
Mosl"OW I ,inguistir <. 'in·Jc on "the philological life of Petrograd" (Sharir
19')1, <;2).
3 0 6 / MY F UTURIST YEARS
200. On Janov's father see p. 33. If G. Janov was "five years younger" than
Jakobson, he was at the time not even twenty years old!
201 . Jakobson stayed in Reval from the beginning of February until the
fourth of April 1920 in the capacity of a "member of the trade delega­
tion ofCentrosojuz and a colllaborator of ROSTA" (Jakobson 1987, 427).
202. Mixail JuI'evich Levidov (1891-1942) was a writer and journalist; after
Reval he worked in the publications bureau of the Soviet trade delega­
tion in London. After returning to Russia, he joined LEF .
under Stalin.
203. Arturo Cappa was a lawyer and brother of Benedetta Cappa, the future
wife of Marinetti. A communist, he was the author of the book L'arte e
fa rivofuzione (Milan, 1920). Cappa was far from being the sole Italian
futurist with communist sympathies: see footnote 9 (pp. 332f below) to
the essay "New Art in the West."
204. Nikolaj K. Klyshko (1880-1937) was an Old Bolshevik. During World
War I he was a member of the Bolshevik section of the R.S.D.R . P .
London (together with Litvinov, Kerzhencev and others). After the
October revolution he worked for a while as V.v. Vorovskij's assistant in
the State Publishing House (GOSI ZDAT) , then served in Soviet trade and
diplomatic missions abroad, including Sweden and Norway. Repressed
under Stalin.
205. Jakobson was in Reval from the beginning ofJune until July 3, 1920.
206. Jakobson agreed with me that his account here about Teodor Nette was
contaminated with his letter of March 2, 1963 about his acquaintance­
ship with the Latvian diplomatic courier, a copy of which he gave me
during our work on the current memoirs. The letter later appeared in S W
VII, 363-65.
207. Janis Rainis (Janis Pliei<Sans, 1865-1929) was a Latvian poet and play­
wright. In 1 897-1902 he was exiled to Russia for participating in the
fight for democracy and later emigrated to Switzerland. In 1920 he
returned to his homeland, where he became director of the National
Theater and later Minister of Enlightenment.
COMM E N TARI E S TO PAG E S 8 1 - 8 9 / 3 0 7
208. On Czech Verse, Primarily in Comparison with Russian (Prague, 1923). On
the Cafe Derby, cf. Ju. Tynjanov's letter to V. Shklovskij from the end of
1928: "I'm sitting in the Cafe Derby with Roman, we're talking a lot
about you and making various plans. We've elaborated the principal the­
ses (for OPOJA Z) and are sending them to you for amplification and con­
firmation." (Tynjanov 1977, 533.)
209. A citation from Majakovskij's poem "To Comrade Nette, the Steamboat
and the Man" (1926).
210. The poem was published without an indication of the author.
211. As far as can be determined, this note was never published.
212. Nette's scholarly proclivities are attested to by the fact that in his article
"The Influence of the Revolution on the Russian Language" Jakobson
thanks him for philological observations that are used in the work
(Jakobson 1921a, 31).
213. The literary scholar and folklorist A.A. Skaftymov (1890-1968) was a
professor at Saratov University from 1921 on.
214. Pavel Nikolaevich Mostovenko (1881-1939) was in 1921-1922 the rep­
resentative of the R.S. F.S.R in Lithuania and Czechoslovakia. According
to Shklovskij, Mostovenko helped him to return to Russia: "One of my
acquaintances (through Roman), Pavel Nikolaevich Mostovenko, was in
Moscow and submitted a statement on the necessity of concluding my
case. He spoke about it with Kamenev, Lunacharskij and, it seems,
Zinov"ev. The statement was given to Enukidze and was supposed to go
to the All-Russian Central Executive Committee [VCIK]." (A letter of
November 1922 to his wife; Shklovskij 1990, 507.)
215. C.Y. Chicherin (1872-1936) was the Commissar for Foreign Affairs
from 1918 to 1930. As Jakobson recalls further: "I never met Chicherin.
He was a unique person, from a very aristocratic family ofItalian origin.
(His ancestor was, in Moscovite Russia, under one of the Ioanns, an
Italian tra n slator, a cicerone; hence the name Chicherin.) He graduated
ti-Olll the l'hilolo�ical Faculty of l'etershllr� Univ ersi ty. One of my
acquaintanlTs. who also wadllatcd hom the sallle f:ICul ty,.! as trehov. who
3 0 8 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
later became a professor, told him: 'I envy you, you graduated with dis­
tinction.' 'Yes,' Chicherin answered, 'but there isn't a single subject to
which I am attached.' And so he entered the diplomatic service, in
Tsarist Russia. Then one fine day he went to the Embassy and declared
that he had become a Social Democrat and left the service. Chicherin
wrote letters to Levin; I read them myself: 'Send me books, I love Czech
literature and Czech poetry very much. (In emigration he was for the
most part in Prague.) Send me, if you can, the latest volume of poems by
Vrchlicky; I value him greatly.' Levin sent him the books he wanted, and
also sent him Svejk, which we also found quite interesting. In one letter
he wrote to Levin: 'You say you're bored in Prague. But you're not right.
It is a country with a philistine gloss, but under this are hidden passions,
the same passions that are reflected in the Slavonic dances of Dvorak
and in Czech poetry, in the poetry of Neruda. This will be one of the
brightest of revolutions.'" (TR.)
216. V. A. Antonov-Ovseenko was the Soviet ambassador to Czechoslovakia
in 1924-1929. See footnote 1 16.
217. Cf. the letter of the All-Russian Society for Cultural Relations with
Foreign Countries (VOKS ) in the name of its representative in
Czechoslovakia, the embassy's advisor Naum Kaljuzhnyj, of February 8,
1927: "Majakovskij is travelling at his own expense and is counting on
an organized collaboration in arranging a reading and lodgings, which
comrade Jakobson has kindly agreed to offer him, since he does not wish
to stay at a hotel" (Archive of L.]u. Brik). As a matter of fact,
Majakovskij stayed at the Hotel Julius, Vaclavska 22. Cf. Majakovskij's
description of his trip to Prague in his essay "How I Traveled" (1927):
"At the Prague railway station was Roma Jakobson. He is the same. He's
gained some weight. Work in the press agency of the Prague Embassy
has added to him a certain solidity and diplomatic circumspection in
speech." (PSS 8, 331.)
218. The evening at the Soviet Embassy took place on April 25th.
219. Mathesius' translation appeared as a separate edition in Prague in 1925.
220. The evening took place on April 26 in the "Vinohrad People's House."
Cf. the essay "How I Travelled": "I read a lecture on 'Ten Years of Ten
C O M M E N TA R I E S TO PAGE S 8 9 - 9 1 / 3 0 9
Poets.' Then 150,000,000 was read in Prof. Mathesius' translation. The
third part was 'Me and My Verses'" (PSS 8, 332). On the various news­
paper reviews of the evening see Jakobson's letter, sent to Majakovskij
several days after his apppearance and cited by the poet in his essay.
221 . Majakovskij's quarrel with the State Publishing House over his hono­
raria is reflected in the poet's correspondence with its manager (PSS 13,
1 12, 1 14-15, 127, 129-30). Majakovskij was usually paid by the line, but
in a letter of March 16, 1929, the director of the State Publishing
House, A. B. Xalatov wrote that in connection with the "disadvanta­
geousness" of this system, "it is essential urgently to make a motivated
proposition to comrade Majakovskij about changing the agreement in
relation to the system of payment (making it per page)" (IMLI, 18-2-35).
Majakovskij, however, demanded payment of 75 kopecks per line and
received a certificate from the Federation of Writers (FOSP) about the
justifiability of such a demand: "Payment of 75 kopecks per line in rela­
tion to poetic works being issued in their first book edition, keeping in
mind the usual payment of our publishers and the qualifications of
Comrade Majakovskij as a writer, is considered normal" (ibid). Judging
by Xalatov's letter of June 15, 1929 to the Associate Director of the
Literary-Artistic Division of the State Publishing House, G.
Sandomirskij, the publisher agreed to Majakovskij's conditions (ibid).
222. Jakobson had indicated already in 1931 the similarity of Majakovskij's
and Karamzin's perception of Russia and France, in his essay on the
Russian myth of France: "Der treue Sohn des russischen Kaiserreiches,
Karamzin, sagt in 1790 yom revolutionaren Paris: Ich mochte in
meinem lieben Vaterland leben und sterben; aber nach Rumand gibt es
fur mich kein angenehmeres Land als Frankreich. Und 1925 schreibt
Majakovskij, der Dichter Sovjetrumands, der nie Karamzin gelesen
hatte, yom Nachkriegs-Frankreich: Ich mochte in Paris leben und ster­
ben, wenn es kein Land Moskau gabe. Das gleiche Motiv variiert 1847
Belinskij." (Jakobson 1931a, 637.)
223. Adolf Hofmeister (1902-1973) was a Czech artist and caricaturist. On
November 3, 1929 Majakovskij was present at the opening of an exhibi­
tion of his caricatures in Paris. See Hofmeister's reminiscences about
Majakovskij (Majakovskij 1988, 347-50, which also has a reproduction
of a caricaturl' of Majakovskij in 1927 hy Hofmeister).
3 1 0 / MY F U T U RI S T YEARS
224. On the way to Paris in mid-February 1929, Majakovskij "spent a day at
my place in Prague," Jakobson recalls (1956, 187). According to a letter
cited by v.A. Katanjan, negotiations about producing The Bedbug were
preceded by a letter from the representative of VOKS in Prague, N.
Kaljuzhnyj, to VOKS in Moscow dated January 21, 1929, with a request
for a copy of the play (1985, 584).
225. Cf also the following lines in About That: "Perhaps in my childhood,!
actually,! I'll find ten tolerable days."The theme of time and aging is a leit­
motif of the entire oeuvre of Majakovskij. See Pomorska 1981, 341-353.
226. Cf Jakobson's essay "For and Against Viktor Shklovskij": "Majakovskij
often spoke about the dramatic alternation of genres and about their
dramatic collision, about the battle of lyric and antilyric elements both
in his poetry and in his written or oral testimony about his poetry. . . .
The quarrel of pro and contra, the pressure of the lyric, again calling him
to write about the one and the other and answering attacks on the lyric,
such is the inner law of Majakovskij's life and literary path" (1959, 309).
The notion of the cyclical nature of Majakovskij's work is developed by
Jakobson in his essay "New Verses by Majakovskij": "In Majakovskij's
work love poems and lyrical cycles regularly alternate with lyro-epic
poems about world events" (1956, 180-181). After the first lyrical cycle
(A Cloud in Trousers, A Backbone Flute) there followed the "civic poem"
War and the World, replaced in turn by the lyric poem Man, after which
150,000,000 was written, etc.
227. Majakovskij met Tat'jana Aleksandrovna Jakovleva (1906-1991) in
Paris in 1928. Jakobson made her acquaintance in America, and some
of Majakovskij's letters to her were published by Jakobson in 1956. Cf.
Elsa Triolet's reminiscences: "I made Tat'jana's acquaintance in Paris in
1928, just before Majakovskij's arrival, and told her: 'You're of
Majakovskij's stature.' So it was because of this 'stature,' as a joke, that
1 introduced Volodja to her. Majakovskij fell deeply in love with her at
first glance.... At the time Majakovskij needed love, he counted on it,
desired it ... " (Triolet 1975, 64, 65).
228. Thus, for example, in December 1916, Elsa received a letter from
Majakovskij with a line from A Cloud in Trousers-"my nerves are
already giving way under their feet"-and immediately set off for
C O M M E N TA RI E S TO PAG E S 9 2 - 9 7 / 3 1 1
Petrograd to see him. "All my life I was afraid that Volodja would kill
himself" (Triolet, 1975, 33; see also the correspondence of Majakovskij
and Elsa Triolet: MajakovskijlTriolet 1990).
229. The group of Left-wing activists in art who sided with the revolution
called themselves "Komfuty" (Communist-Futurists). It included
Majakovskij, Brik, Punin, Kushner and others. On the history of the
"Komfuty" see Jangfeldt 1976, 92-1 18.
230. A quote from the poem " A Letter of the Writer Vladimir Majakovskij
to the Writer Aleksej Maksimovich Gor'kij" (1926).
231. See Majakovskij's autobiography, "I Myself": "Burljuk would say:
Majakovskij has a memory like a road in Poltava,-everyone leaves one
of their galoshes on it."
232. This took place, in all likelihood, in 1916 (see Blok 1982, 100). Cf. K.I.
Chukovskij's diary entry for December 8, 1920: "Majakovskij told me, in
a most amusing way, the story of how he went to see Blok a long time
ago. It was Lili's nameday, and she was making bliny; she insisted that
he not be late. He went to Blok's, having decided that he would return
at a certain time. Lili had asked him to get some of Blok's latest books­
with an autograph.-I went. I sit down. Blok keeps talking and talking.
I look at my watch and figure: ten minutes for conversation, ten minutes
to ask for the books and autographs, and three minutes for the prepara­
tion of the autographs. Everything went well-Blok proposed the books
himself and said that he wanted to make a dedication. He sat down at
the table, took his pen-and sits for five minutes, ten, fifteen. I'm in a
state of horror-I want to scream: hurry up!-and he keeps sitting and
thinking. I politely say: don't strain yourself, write the first thing that
comes to mind-he keeps sitting with the pen in his hand and keeps
thinking. The bliny had fallen through! I rush about the room like a
madman. I'm afraid to look at my watch. Finally Blok finishes. I
slammed the book shut, smearing it slightly, thanked him, ran off, and
then I read: 'To Vl. Majakovskij, about whom I have been thinking so
much lately'" (Chukovskij 1980, 304-5). On Majakovskij's attitude
toward Rlok's poetry, cf. Lili Brik's memoirs: "In 1915, when we met,
Majakovskij was still hewitched by Rlok" (Brik 1963, 332).
3 1 2 / MY F U T U RI S T YEARS
233. Cf.Jakobson's reminiscences about K.P. Bogatyrev: "It isn't easy to read
the noisy semantics of a still unconscious human being, and even our
Moscow guest Vladimir Majakovskij would shudder when the little boy
Bogatyrev would run into the room" (Bogatyrev 1982, 230).
234. Cf. LJu. Brik's diary for January 23, 1930: "Volodja's relatives would irri­
tate him to such an extent that he would positively shudder. Even
though [his older sister] Ljuda would drop by our place once in three
months. I even went to his room and said: 'You have to at least talk to
Ljuda for half an hour or at least open the door; otherwise, she won't
leave.' And he answered: 'I can't, she gets on my nerves!!!' And he
became all contorted while saying it. It was terribly unpleasant for me."
(Archive of LJu. Brik.)
235. Shchen was Majakovskij's dog in 1919-1920. See Lili Brik's memoir of
1942. Majakovskij often signed his letters to Lili Brik as "Shchen," with
a drawing of a dog.
236. Anna Axmatova recalled a similar utterance of Majakovskij's in a con­
versation with LJa. Ginzburg: "Remember what Majakovskij said: say
whatever you want about my poems; only don't say that the earlier ones
were better than the latest." (Ginzburg 1989, 361.)
237. LJu. Brik recalls that in the first years of her marriage to O.M. Brik they
read Kierkegaard's book In vino veritas together. (Brik 1934, 63.)
238. E. A. Lavinskaja tells how on April 16, 1930 she saw the Chekist Ja. S.
Agranov, surrounded by a group of writers from LEF: "I approached, and
he handed me some sort of photograph, warning me to look at it quick­
ly and not to show it to anyone else. It was a photograph of Majakovskij,
outstretched on the floor like someone crucified, with his arms and legs
spread out and with his mouth wide-open in a cry of despair. They
explained to me: 'It was taken immediately, when Agranov, Tret'jakov
and Kol'cov entered the room.'" (Lavinskaja 1968, 330.) The memoirs
of V. Polonskaja, who was in the apartment when Majakovskij shot him­
self, do not contain this information.
C O M M ENTA R I E S TO PAG E S 9 7 - 1 0 0 I 3 1 3
PART Two
-
LE T T E R S
Letters 1-3 are addressed t o A. E . Kruchenyx and M . V. Matjushin. Apart
from these three letters addressed to older futurist colleagues, there exists a
letter of Jakobson to V. Xlebnikov from February 1914. Fragments of this let­
ter have been published by N. Xardzhiev: "Remember, Viktor Vladimirovich,
how you told me that our alphabet is too poor for poetry and that one ends
up in a blind alley with verses composed of letters? I become more and more
convinced that you are mistaken. Recently I came to a curious discovery,
which is why I am writing you. This novelty is interlacings of letters, a sort of
analogy to musical chords. It achieves a simultanism of two or more letters
and, moreover, a diversity of graphic combinations which establish various
interrelations of letters. All of this enriches verse and opens new paths. . . .
When I asked you what you had come to, the answer was-numbers. You
know, Viktor Vladimirovich, it seems to me that verses made out of numbers
are realizable. The number is a two-edged sword, extremely concrete and
extremely abstract, arbitrary and fatally exact, logical and nonsensical, limit­
ed and infinite. Pardon the rhetoric. You know numbers, and therefore, even
if you recognize that the poetry of numbers is an unacceptable paradox, but a
sharp one, please try and give me at least a small model of such verse. "
(Xardzhiev 1976, 57.) Xardzhiev also states that his archive contains a letter
of Jakobson to Kruchenyx with a reference to the above letter to Xlebnikov.
F. T. Marinetti, by the way, also arrived at the poetry of numbers. In March
1914 he published a manifesto entitled "Lo splendore geometrico e meccani­
co e la sensibilitit numerica, " in which he writes: "My love for precision and
essential brevity has naturally given me a taste for numbers, which live and
breathe on the page like living beings in our new numerical sensibility. . . . I
always intuitively introduce numbers that have no direct significance or value
hetween the words-in-freedom, hut that . . . express the various transcenden­
tal intensities of matter and the indestructible correspondences of sensibility."
(Marint'tti 1971, l'iH-S9.) Thl' ratal()�lIt' Tht' Futurist imllx,inlltiofl (Yale
3 1 4 / MY F U T U RI S T YEARS
University Art Gallery, New Haven, 1983) reproduces an example of
Marinetti's poetry of numbers from c. 1914-1915 (?) (Cat. no. 59, p. 28). On
the principal difference in the Italian and Russian Futurists' approach to the
word, see Jakobson 1921, 6-9; cf. pp. 176f above.
Letter 4 is addressed to the mother of L. Ju. Brik and Elsa Triolet in
London. Letters 5-17 are addressed to Elsa Triolet in Paris (5-13, 17) and in
Berlin (14-16).
LETTER 1.
The letter is not dated. In his essay "From Aljagrov's Letters, " written in
1979, where it was first published (minus the postscript), Jakobson dates it
February 1914. (On the dating, see note 15.) It is published from a photo­
copy of the original, which is in the archive of A. E.Parnis.Jakobson's own
annotations to the letter from his article "From Aljagrov's Letters" (see SW
VII, 357-61) are given in the footnotes in quotes, followed by his initials. The
remaining annotations are the editor's.
1.
"Using habitual words"-R.J.
2.
Jakobson speaks of a letter "to Kruchenyx with a poem which is an indi­
rect parody of Majakovskij" (see p. 25 above), i.e. apparently the poem
"How Many Fragments Have Scattered, " but in the present letter there
is a reference to a poem in which "all the words " are in the masculine
gender, but no such poem has been found.
3.
"Samovityj, 'self-ce'ntered', according to Xlebnikov's terminology"-R.J.
4.
"Prugva is from Old Russian prug 'locust' by analogy with bukva 'let­
ter"'-R.J.
5.
Lukashevich, "who in 1846 published his numerous bold fantasies on
language "-R.J. In his 'book Futurism and Madness. Parallels to the
Creative Work and Analogies to the New Language 0/ the Cubo-Futurists
(Saint Petersburg, 1914), Dr. E.P. Radin cites one of the theses of P. A.
COMM ENTA R I E S TO PAG E S 1 0 3 - 1 0 4 / 3 1 5
Lukashevich (from his book Spell-Casting, or the Holy Language of Gods,
Magicians, and Heathen Priests, Petrgorod [sic: for Petersburg], 1846, p.
24): "Every letter [bukva] or locust [prugva] should be spoken exactly as
it is."
6.
The reference is, perhaps, to the collection mentioned in the postscript,
Onanism, which never appeared. Cf. Jakobson's note to this passage:
"This planned publication was never realized. Of all the joint literary
projects only one booklet written by Kruchenyx and Aljagrov, daringly
and opulently decorated by Ol'ga Rozanova (1886-1918) . . . was pub­
lished in 1915 (though dated 1916). The title of this booklet, Zaumnaja
gniga, jokingly blends kniga, 'book,' with gnida, 'nit.' The collage of the
cover alluding to a buttoned heart consists of a red colored heart with a
genuine white button affIxed to it. The catalogue of the Exhibition,
Paris-Moscou 1900-1930, at the Centre Pompidou, 1979 (pp.425, 428)
appraises the book as Tun des plus beaux du futurisme russe."'-RJ
7.
"A one-volume series of futurist texts published in Petersburg, January,
1914, and prohibited by the censorship as 'amoral."'-RJ The Futurists'
collection Roaring Parnassus appeared in January-February, 1914. (The
official date of issue, according to Knizhnaja letopis', was February 5-12.)
8.
"Symbolists grouped around the publishing center Musaget "-R.J.
9.
Stepun: "Russian philosopher and critic (1884-1965) "-RJ
10. "The Lithuanian symbolist painter Mikalojus C iurlionis (1 8751911) "-RJ According to the newspaper Russkie vedomosti (January 17,
1914), Vjacheslav Ivanov's lecture " Ciurlionis and the Problem of the
Synthesis of the Arts, " delivered on January 16th, "only partially touched
on the named artist " and expressed Ivanov's own concept of the artist as
creator of myth and of future synthetic art as mystery " (see Russkaja lit­
eratura 1972, 571).
1 1. "Cf. Gisela Erbsloh, Pobeda nad solncem, ein futuristiches Drama von
Kruienych, (played in Petersburg, Dec. 1913), Munich, 1976 "-RJ
1 2. "Tht' Snow (2.!ll'l'Il"-RJ
3 1 6 I MY F UT U R I S T YEARS
13. D. P. Martynov: "Russian provincial school principal, author of the book
Revelation 0/ the Mystery 0/ Human Language, 1898, with innumerable
delirious etymologies referred to in Radin's book cited above "-RJ.
14.
''Budetljanin, Xlebnikov's term corresponding to 'futurist"'-R J.
15. "Written during Marinetti's Russian sojourn in February 1914"-R J.
Judging by this phrase, the letter was written during Marinetti's visit to
Russia and was addressed to Kruchenyx in Petersburg, where Marinetti
stayed from February 1st until the 8th, 1914. When the Italian Futurist
arrived in Moscow on January 26th, the main representatives ofRussian
Futurism were absent: Majakovskij, Burljuk and Kamenskij were con­
ducting their tour of Russia, whereas Xlebnikov and Kruchenyx were in
Petersburg. Therefore, a debate with the Cubo-Futurists did not take
place, and, on his departure from Moscow, Marinetti proposed arrang­
ing a meeting with various Russian Futurists after his return from
Petersburg "with the aim of clarifYing the points on which they diverge
from Italian Futurism and on elaborating a general program" (Xardzhiev
1975, 128). On Marinetti's visit to Moscow, see above pp. 20-22.
16. "Particularly in questions of poetic language "-RJ.
17. "Large Moscow bookstore on Kuzneckij Most "-RJ.
18. Severjanin: "The ego-futurist poet (1887-1942),,-RJ.
19. There is no such collection with this title. It is not to be excluded that
this was the preliminary title for the collection Transrational Boog.
LETTER 2.
The beginning of the letter is lost. It can be dated, tentatively, by its contents
(it was clearly written after the beginning of the war on August 1, 1914).
Jl1kobsons translation ofMalhirme's sonnet "Une dentelle s'abolit" is append­
ed to the letter. It is published from a photocopy of the original, which is in
the archive of A. E. Parnis.
C O M M E N TA RI E S TO PAG E S 1 0 4 - 1 0 7 I 3 1 7
1.
It is possible that the reference i s t o the last parts o f the novel Petersburg,
which appeared in April 1914.
2.
Kruchenyx's book Actual Stories and Drawings if Children appeared in
1914.
3. The reference 1S to a phrase from Kruchenyx's book Explodity (St.
Petersburg, 1913): "On the 27th of April at 3 o'clock in the afternoon I
instantaneously mastered completely all languages. "
LETTER 3 .
The letter is addressed to the artist M. V. Matjushin (1861-1934). It is dated
by the contents. When I sent Jakobson a copy of the letter, at the end of 1977,
he informed me that he had returned from Petrograd to Moscow during the
first days of the New Year, and the premiere of Goldoni's play mentioned in
the letter took place on January 27, 1915. Excerpts from the letter are cited
in JakobsonIPomorska 1982, 163-64. It is printed here in full for the first
time from a photocopy of the original in The Institute of Russian Literature
(IRLI), f. 656, the archive of M.V. Matjushin.
1.
As Jakobson informed me, the reference is to "reestablishing " contact
with Malevich, with whom he had already become acquainted in 1913.
On Malevich and Morgunov see p. 24 above.
2.
Jakobson had taken E. Guro's book Baby Camels ifthe Sky (Petersburg,
1914), to the editorial offices of the newspaper Russkie vedomosti to be
reviewed (cf. JakobsoniPomorska 1983, 163).
3.
On Jakobson's friend, the artist S. Bajdin, see above, p. 6.
4.
On January 1, 1915 a German submarine sank the English dreadnought
is referring to certain of Xlebnikov's mathemati­
cal calrulatiol1s as proof tilr the "predication" having come true.
Formidahle. Jakohson
3 1 8 I MY F U T U RI S T YEARS
5.
N.S. Goncharova did the scenery for Goldoni's play "The Fan." The play
premiered in the Kamenyj Theater on January 27, 1915.
6.
The reference is to two poems from the collection The Goblet Seething
with Thunders. In the edition of 1916 the third line of the poem " A
Polonaise of Champagne " of 1912 still reads " Golubku ijastreba! Rejxstag
i Bastiliju" ["Dove and Hawk! The Reichstag and the Bastille"], while in
the edition of 1918 "Reichstag" is replaced by its Swedish counterpart
"Riksdag. " In the poem "Nelly " (191 1), the last line-"Introdukcija­
Gauptman, a final-Pot de Kok" ["The introduction is Hauptman, and
the fmale-Paul de Kock" ]-permits the replacement of Hauptman by
Huysmans both in meter and in sense, but there are no printed versions
that reflect this change. On January 25, 1915 Severjanin read, together
with Blok, Sologub, Axmatova and others, at the Town Council for an
evening of poetry called "Writers to Soldiers "; the reference may be to
this reading. (I'm grateful to R. Kruus for bringing this to my attention.)
7.
Ekaterina Genrixovna Guro (Nizen), 1 874-1972, was the sister of Elena
Guro. She contributed to the first of the collections A TrapforJudges and
was the translator of the Russian edition of Gleizes' and Metzinger's
book On Cubism (St. Petersburg, 1 913).
8. Ol'ga Konstantinovna Matjushina (1885-1975), a writer, was the second
wife of Matjushin.
LETTER 4.
The letter is addressed to Elena Jul 'evna Kagan (1872-1942), the mother of
Elsa Triolet, in London. It is dated by its contents.The letter and Jakobson's
letters to Elsa Triolet are preserved in the archive of Elsa Triolet in the Centre
National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS) in Paris, and are published here
from photocopies of the originals.
1.
Lilja L.Ju. Brik. I n 1 9 1 8 Elsa married the French officer Andre Triolet
and went abroad with him.
=
C O M M EN TARI E S TO PAG E S 1 0 8 - 1 1 3 / 3 1 9
2.
The linguist G.O. Vinokur (1896-1947) worked at the time in the
Embassy of the R.S.F.S.R. in Reval. After a while he became the head of
the Press Bureau of the Embassy of the R.S.F.S.R. in Riga. During these
years Jakobson corresponded with Vinokur; excerpts of his letters can be
found in Shapir 1990.
3.
Izrail' L 'vovich Kan, Jakobson's schoolmate at the Lazarev Institute. See
above, p. 5.
LETTER 5.
Jakobson dates the letter without indicating the year. It is addressed to Elsa
Triolet in Paris and is dated on the basis of its contents.
1.
See the letter to E.Ju. Kagan from mid-September 1920.
2.
On Jakobson's activities in 1917-1920 see above, pp. 17-89.
3.
For her first time abroad Elsa Triolet lived with her husband on Tahiti.
See her book On Tahiti (Leningrad, 1925) and Jakobson's poem in this
edition (p.259).
4.
An error of memory: Jakobson spent the summer of 1919 with the Briks
in Pushkino. Cf. letter 1 1 of December 19, 1920: "last summer. "
5.
One assumes that the diary was kept in the safe of Moscow Linguistic
Circle along with Xlebnikov's manuscripts. See above, pp. 59-60.
6.
Jakobson is referring to spotted typhus, which he contracted in Riga in
the winter of 1 919. See above, pp. 54-55.
7.
The reference is to the collection Everything Composed by Vladimir
Majako1!,d:ii (Moscow, 1919). See the next letter.
3 2 0 / MY F U T U RI S T YEARS
LETTER 6.
The letter is mistakenly dated November 1 1 by Jakobson, without an indica­
tion of the year. The last phrase ("Today is my birthday") dates it October 1 1 .
1.
Jakobson's statement that L.Ju. Brik planned t o enter into a "fictitious
marriage " with him and go abroad is quite interesting.Her intention to
emigrate is testified to by B. L.Pasternak's parting words on the manu­
script of My Sister Life, which he gave to L.]u. Brik in spring 1 919. His
pencilled dedication, hinting at an up-coming trip to America by L.]u.
Brik, was written later, in October 1919 (Pasternak 1989, 533):
Let the rhythm of the October trifle
Serve as the rhythm
For a flight from bungling
To a country where there's Whitman,
And at a time when the colors are flowering
Of variously colored Guards,
I wish you Chicago dawns
To dawn upon you.
The dating of this impromptu is confirmed by another ofJakobson's let­
ters to Elsa Triolet of December 19, 1920 (no. 11), where he speaks of a
serious crisis in the relations between L.Ju. Brik and Majakovskij: "Lili
long ago got tired of Volodja.. .. It ended in endless quarrels. . ..By the
fall of 1919 they had ceased living together, Volodja moved in next door
to me, and in the winter they broke up." One can assume that the idea
of emigration was partly connected to these changes in Lili Brik's per­
sonal life, but judging by Pastenak's sharp parting words there may have
been political motives as well.
2.
Jakobson preserved Elsa Triolet's diary after her departure from Russia
in the summer of 1918. See above, p. 36.
3.
O n the artist Sergej Bajdin see letter no. 3 t o M .V. Matjushin and p. 6
above.
4.
The reference is to Majakovskij's poem 150,000,000, which he was
unable to publish in Russian and therefore gave to Jakobson when the
latter was going abroad. See above, p. 85.
C O M M E N TARI E S TO PAGE S 1 1 4- 1 2 0 / 3 2 1
LETTER 7.
Jakobson dates the letter "the 14th, " without indicating the month and year.
It is dated by its contents: Jakobson left the Red Cross Mission in September
1920. Judging by the following letter, it was not sent immediately, but togeth­
er with that letter: "Today is the 19th, and I had already written you on the
14th, but didn't send it off until now. "
1.
I. e., the Red Cross Mission.
2.
Judging by this phrase, Jakobson planned to visit O. M. Brik in Moscow.
LETTER 8.
This letter is dated by its contents.
1.
I. e., Majakovskij's poem War and the World (1917).
2.
The reference is to the manuscript of the poem 150,000,000. C£ letter
6 of October 11, 1920.
3.
C£ letter 5 of September 17, 1920.
4.
The book on Xlebnikov came out in Prague at the beginning of 1921
under the title The Newest Russian Poetry. A First Sketch (see letter 13 of
January 25, 1921). Jakobson read it "in the form of a lecture " in the
Moscow Linguistic Circle in May 1919, in the Petrograd House of
Writers at the end of 1919, and in OPO]AZ in the spring of 1920.
5.
Pavel Nikitich Sakulin (1863-1930) was a literary scholar who after the
Revolution headed the Society of Lovers of the Russian Word.
6.
In the collection Poetics (Moscow, 1919), three articles by Viktor Shklovskij
appeared: "On Poetry and Transrational Language, " "The Connection
Between Devices of Plot Co nst ru ction and General Stylistic Devices,"
and "I\rl as l kvin· ... SCl' Shklovskij 1 9 1 6, 1 9 1 9a, and 191%.
3 2 2 I MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
7.
Elsa lived with her mother o n Golikovskij Lane o n Pjatnickaja Street.
8.
A quote from A Cloud in Trousers: "I swear with all my pagan strength!!
Give mel anyl beautiful! young girl-1 won't waste her soul. . . .
"
9.
Henri Barbusse's book Le Feu (1916) appeared in Russian in Moscow in
1919 in S.V. Gal 'perin's translation: Ogon ': dnevnik odnogo goroda.
10. The French writer Pierre Benoit's novel L'Atlantide; the Russian trans­
lation appeared in 1922.
1 1 . O.M. Brik, V.B. Shklovskij, A.E . Kruchenyx.
LETTER 9
The letter is dated by Jakobson without indicating the year.
1.
The reference is to the book on Xlebnikov's work.
2.
At the time Jakobson's parents and his younger brother Sergej lived in
Berlin.
LETTER 10.
The letter is dated by Jakobson without indicating the year.
1.
Lev Aleksandrovich Grinkrug, a friend of Majakovskij and the Briks.
See notes 164 (p. 299) and 104 (p. 286) above.
2.
C£ p. 32 above about this period, the end of 1916: "This was a time of
a great, passionate friendship between Elsa and me." Jakobson proposed
to Elsa at the time. C£ the chapter "Wild Strawberry, Get Married" in
Elsa Triolet's autobiogniphical book Wild Strawberry (Moscow, 1926),
88-90.
C O M M E N TA RI E S TO PAG E S 1 2 0 - 1 2 9 I 3 2 3
3. As before, the reference is t o the poem 150,000,000.
4. See Letter 11 of December 19, 1920 about a planned trip to Moscow.
LETTER 1 1 .
The letter i s dated b y Jakobson without indicating the year.
1.
A paraphrase of the poem "Brother Writers " (1917): "If ones like you are
creators-I I spit on all art."
2.
The reference is to the summer of 1919, which they spent together in
Pushkino.
3.
In the fall of 1919 Majakovskij moved into a room in the Staxeev House
on Lubjanskij Thruway, where Jakobson lived. See above, p. 66.
4.
Stanislav Gurvic-Gurskij, an acquaintance of Elsa's. See Triolet 1975,
32-33, and p. 42 above.
5.
Boris Anisimovich Kushner (1888-1937) was a writer and poet, one of
the founders of OPOJAZ; in 1918-1919 he collaborated with Brik and
Majakovskij in IZO, the Fine Arts Division of the People's Commissariat
of Enlightenment (Narkompros). He was repressed under Stalin.
6.
The reference is to a heliographic edition of a manuscript text of the four
Gospels of the New Testament made by the abbot Procopius (died c.
1030; in 1204 canonized by the Catholic Church) in the Czech
monastery of Sazava: Notice sur l'ivangeliare slavon de Reims dit Texte du
Sacre, Reims, 1899. The first part is written in Cyrillic; the second-in
Glagolitic.
7.
See above, p. 62.
8.
Mademoiselle Dachc was the French tutor o f Jakobson and Elsa. See
above, p. 16.
3 2 4 / MY F U T U RI S T YEARS
LETTER 12.
The letter is dated by its contents-December 25, 1920 in the Old Style,
January 7, 1921 in the New Style.
1.
Elsa Triolet's father, u. A. Kagan, was a member of the Literary- Artistic
Circle, which organized a Christmas ball every year.
2.
The letter of Prince N. S. Trubetzkoy to Jakobson from Sofia is dated
December 12, 1920. After receiving it, Jakobson apparently inquired of
Trubetzkoy about the perspectives for work in Bulgaria. Cf.Trubetzkoy's
letter of February 1, 1921: "You ask whether it is possible to get you a
job in Bulgaria." Considering the difficulties of obtaining work in Sofia,
Trubetzkoy advises Jakobson to use his "stay in Prague to get a doctor­
ate there." Further, Trubetzkoy dissuades Jakobson from the thought of
returning to his homeland: "You had better not go to Moscow for the
time being, as the possibility of [ending up in] the Great Lubjanka
[prison and headquarters of the secret police] is not to be excluded. Of
course, perhaps, sooner or later we'll all end up there, but in the given
case better later than sooner." (Jakobson 1975, 9, 10.)
3 . From Majakovskij's poem War and the World: "You take pain and grow and
grow it."
LETTER 13.
The letter, sent by registered airmail, is dated by Jakobson and addressed to
Madame Andre Triolet, 1 Avenue Emile Deschanel, Paris.
1.
I. e., Jakobson's first book, The Newest Russian Poetry.
�.
The Russian publishet Ja. Povolockij and Co. in Paris (13, rue
Bonaparte).
C O M M ENTARI E S TO PAG E S 1 3 0 - 1 3 4 / 3 2 5
LETTER 14.
The letter is dated by Jakobson without an indication of the year. Letters 1416 are addressed to Elsa Triolet in Berlin, where she moved in October 1922
and resided until the end of 1923. See Triolet 1975, 39-40.
1.
Sofja Nikolaevna Jakobson, nee Fel'dman (1899-1982), Jakobson's first
wife.
2.
Jakobson met Elsa in Berlin in October 1922, when Shklovskij, the
Briks and Majakovskij were there. See the following note.
3.
The relations between Elsa and Shklovskij formed the basis for the lat­
ter's novel in letters Zoo, or Letters Not About Love (Berlin, 1923). In her
first letter the heroine Alja ( Elsa) writes about a "second" suitor
(Jakobson is implied) who "continues to insist on the fact that he loves
me. In exchange, he demands that I turn with all my unpleasantnesses
to him." At the end of September 1 922 Shklovskij visited Jakobson in
Prague, and in October of the same year they saw each other in Berlin.
C£ Shklovskij's letter to M. Gor'kij of September 18, 1922: "[Roman
Jakobson] sends me one telegram in the morning and one at night. I'm
going to visit him on Monday. I love him like a lover." (Shklovskij 1993,
35.) Cf. also Shklovskij's letter to his wife in Moscow: "I lived in Prague,
but they received me very poorly, since they decided that I was a
Bolshevik. . . . Now I'm in Berlin with Roma. Roma doesn't want to let
me leave Prague. But I'm staying here." (Shklovskij 1990, 503.) Contacts
between Jakobson and Shklovskij were reestablished in the second half
of the 1 920's in connection with the attempts to resurrect the tradition
of OPOJAZ; see the correspondence of Jakobson, Shklovskij and
Tynjanov (Tynjanov 1977, 531-33) and Jakobson's letter to Shklovskij
(Shklovskij 1990, 519).
=
4.
Elsa lived with her mother on Golikovskij Lane in Moscow in 1915-1918.
5.
On Elsa Triolet's diary, see letter 6, note 2.
Il.
An allusion to Sh klovskij's hook A
Berlin in ),lIluury 1 9.21 .
Sentimental Journey, puhlished In
3 2 6 / MY F U T U R I ST YEARS
LETTER 15.
The letter is dated in a hand other than Jakobson's without an indication of
the year.
1.
In his "Letter to Roman Jakobson," published in the journal Knizhnyj
ugol (1922: 8) and reprinted in the Berlin journal Veshch' (1922: 1-2),
Shklovskij informs him that "Nadja has gotten married" (see p. 305
above, note 198) and goes on to explain: "I am writing you about this in
a journal, even though it is a small one, because life has been compressed.
If! wanted to write a love letter, I should just sell it to a publisher and get
an advance." (Shklovskij 1990, 145.) As a matter of fact, the letters of the
heroine Alja in the novel Zoo are actual letters of Elsa Triolet. Jakobson
answered Shklovskij's letter, in which he asks him to return to Russia,
with the dedication to his book On Czech Verse (Prague, 1923): "To v.B.
Shklovskij (instead of an answer to a letter in Knizhnyj ugol)."
LETTER 16.
The letter is dated by Jakobson and addressed to "Frau Andre Triolet,
Hagelbergerstr. 371, Berlin SW 47."
1. It was not possible to establish the source of this quote.
LETTER 17.
The letter is dated by Jakobson without an indication of the year. Judging by
the context, it was sent to Paris, where Elsa Triolet returned at the end of
1923.
'1.
Shklovskij returned to Russia at the end of September - begining of
October 1923. See p. 307 above, note 214.
C OM M ENTA R I E S TO PAG E S 1 3 6 - 1 4 1 / 3 2 7
2.
Sharik i s perhaps Majakovskij's acquaintance Dubinskij (actual name
Mojsha Livshic), a left poet who worked in the Comintern.
3.
V. Xodasevich and N . Berberova left Berlin o n November 4, 1923 for a
visit to Prague. They saw Jakobson often: November 9, 13, 20, 23, 24,
25, 27, 29 and December 1 and 5 (according to Xodasevich's notes; c£
Berberova 1969, 203-4). Berberova recalls: "Roman Jakobson comes
after dinner. Along the black streets, Xodasevich, he, and I champ
through the liquid snow and mud, sink into it, slip on the sidewalk-we
are going to an ancient tavern. In the tavern Xodasevich and Roman will
carry on long conversations about metaphors and metonymies.Jakobson
suggests to Xodasevich that he translate into Russian a long poem of the
Czech romantic Macha. 'Perhaps from Macha to Macha you could set
yourself up in Praha?' he says pensively. But Xodasevich is not enchant­
ed by Macha and returns to the poem." (Ibid., 208.)
4.
In the summer of 1923 Jakobson was in Germany, where he met with
Majakovskij and the Briks. It is possible, of course, that he is speaking
of a later trip.
5.
I t i s possible that the reference i s t o manuscript o f Elsa Triolet's first
book, On Tahiti, published in Leningrad in 1925.
3 2 8 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
PART THREE - E S SAYS
The first four essays by R.O Jakobson published here originally appeared in
Soviet newspapers and journals just prior to and after his departure from
Russia at the beginning of summer, 1920. Two of them-"Futurism" and
"The Tasks of Artistic Propaganda"-are programmatic articles dedicated to
questions of modern art which were published in the organs of the Division
of Visual Arts of the People's Commissariat of Enlightenment (120). The
other two, "New Art in the West " and "Dada, " are accounts of new trends in
Western art and literature. A. Parnis advances the thesis that the article
"Cubism, " published in the newspaper Iskusstvo (1916: 6, July 8) and signed
with the initials R.Z., could also have been written by Jakobson for the pro­
posed Encyclopedia if VisualArts, though he states that "for a definitive reso­
lution of this question further investigations are needed" (Jakobson 1987,
418). In his conversations with the editor of the present volume, Jakobson
speaks about an essay on "Pictorial Semantics" written for the above-men­
tioned encyclopedia, but does not mention the article on Cubism (see above,
p. 56). At the beginning of September 1975, I inquired of Jakobson about an
article "On Painting " published in Gazeta Futuristov (March 15, 1918) signed
by N. Jakobson; he replied that the essay was not by him, adding that D.
Burljuk had asked him to contribute to the newspaper but that he had not
written anything for it. In this regard Jakobson spoke of another essay he had
written for the Soviet press, a review of reminiscences of Dostoevskij by either
his daughter or wife. The book in question is either Dostoevskij v izobrazhenii
ego docheri L. Dostoevskoj (Moscow-Leningrad, 1 922) or Vospominanija A. G.
Dostoevskoj (Moscow-Leningrad, 1925). In his conversation Jakobson says
that he "composed a notice " about Majakovskij's poem 150,000,000 for the
Berlin newspaper Nakanune, but it has not been possible to locate it.
C O M M ENTA R I E S TO PAG E S 1 4 5 - 1 4 9 / 3 2 9
FUTURISM
The essay "Futurism, " signed under the initials RJa.and printed in the news­
paper Iskusstvo (Moscow 1919: 7, August 2), the organ of the Moscow
Division of IZO, is a variant of two articles published in the Petrograd news­
paper Zhizn' iskusstva, namely "Devices of Old Painting " (1919: 199-200,
July 27) and "Futurism as an Aesthetic and Scientific System" (1919: 226,
August 27). Minor variant readings between these versions are mentioned by
A. Parnis in Jakobson 1987. It is published here according to the original
newspaper publication, with the correction of obvious misprints and taking
into account the text as printed in SW Ill , 717-722. In preparing the article
for publication in his Selected Writings Jakobson changed the text slightly.
[Translator's note: I used the text in S W-S.R.J
1.
A. Gleizes and J . Metzinger, Du cubisme (Paris, 1912). The book
appeared in a Russian translation by E. Nizen, edited by M. Matjushin,
o kubizme (Saint Petersburg, 1913).
2.
See C. Stumpf, Ober den psychologischen Ursprung der Raumvorstellung
(Leipzig, 1873), 1 12-13.
3.
The Russian term ustanovka (orientation, set) i s a calque for German
Einstellung, a philosophical term designating apperception, the view­
point or mental set crucial in the perceiver's constituting an object.
[Translator's note-S.R.]
4.
From Goncharov's novel Oblomov (Oblomov's dream).
5.
From the "technical manifesto" o f Futurist painting (1910), signed by
the artists Umberto Boccioni, Carlo Carra, Luigi Russolo, Giacomo
Balla and Guino Severini. See Manifesty italjanskogo Juturizma
(Moscow, 1914), translated by V. Shershenevich.
6.
Cf., for example, Majakovskij's poem "To the Other Side" (1918): "We
covered the world with a complete 'Down With!' "
7:
These and the t(lllowing six quotations are free paraphrases from the
hooks n. D. Xvol "son, Thl' " rillcip'" o/Rdali�lily (Saint Petersburg, 1914)
3 3 0 / MY F UT U R I S T YEARS
and N.A. Umov, The Characteristic Features and Tasks if Contemporary
Natural Scientific Thought (Saint Petersburg, 1914). (On the influence of
physics on the young science of the time, see above, p. 3.)
8.
A. Bogdanov's (A.A. Malinovskij, 1873-1928) theses on collectivistic
ideology. See his book The Science ifSocial Consciousness (A Short Course
ifIdeological Science in Questions and Answers), Moscow, 1918.
9.
Cf. Carra's manifesto "The Painting of Sounds, Noises and Smells"
(1913).
10. An inexact quote from Gleizes' and Metzinger's Du cubisme.
1 1 . On "false recognition" see also The Newest Russian Poetry, where
Jakobson refers to Aristotle's Poetics (Jakobson, 1921, 29).
12. Aristotle's Poetics (IV, 1448B, 15-19), in Kenneth A. Telford's translation
(Chicago, 1961), 6-7.
13. A quote from Xemnicer's fable "A Student of Metaphysics."
THE TASKS OF ARTISTIC P ROPAGANDA
The article was published in the last issue of the newspaper Iskusstvo (1919;
8, Sept. 5), on the occasion of the "Day of Soviet Propaganda" (Nov. 7),
signed Aljagrov and with an editorial note: "Published as a matter for discus­
sion." On the "Day of Propaganda," Majakovskij, Malevich, Rodchenko and
others, whose aesthetic views Jakobson was close to, spoke at a meeting on
"The New Art and Soviet Power." The article was first reprinted by A. Parnis
(Jakobson 1987), unfortunately in an incomplete form, with the last para­
graph omitted. It is published here from the original newspaper edition.
1.
The Moscow Universal ,Store "Muir and Merilise" (now the Central
Universal Store, CUM).
COMM E N TA R I E S TO PAGE S 1 5 0 - 1 5 7 / 3 3 1
2.
From the foreword to Karl Marx's Zur Kritik der politischen Oeconomie
(1859): " Aus Entwicklungsformen der Produktivkriifte schlagen diese
VerhiiltniBe in Fesseln derselben tiber."
3.
Jakobson has in view the "conciliatory" essay of D. Burljuk, written
"under the thunder of the misfortunes of war, " "From Now On I Refuse
to Speak Poorly Even About the Works of Fools. United Aesthetic
Russia!" (in the collection A Spring Contractorship ofthe Muses, Moscow,
1915 ).
4.
C£ V.I. Lenin, The Proletarian Revolution and the Renegade Kautsky
(Moscow, 1918): "Having fallen in love with the 'purity' of democracy,
Kautsky unexpectedly . . . takes formal equality (thoroughly false and
hypocritical under capitalism) for a factual one. "
5.
The reference is to the Division of Fine Arts (IZO) of the People's
Commissariat of Enlightenment (Nakompros). The tendency of the
representatives of this organization "to sharpen the struggle of artistic
currents" led, actually, to the closing of the journal Iskusstvo by the
authorities: the issue with Jakobsons article was the last to appear.
NEW ART IN THE WEST
The article was published in the journal Xudozhestvennaja zhizn' (Moscow
1920 : 3, March- April) and signed with the initials R.Ja. In his commentaries
to the article's republication (Jakobson 1987, 426-427), A. Parnis cites a mul­
titude of data testifying to Jakobsons authorship. To these convincing argu­
ments one can add still another: when the editor of the present edition gave
Jakobson a xerox of the essay in 1975, he immediately stated that he was its
author; his authorship is thus unquestionable. The article was written during
Jakobsons fmt stay in Reval, from February 1 to April 4, 1920. (See above, p.
81.) It is published from the original journal edition.
1.
Th. Dauhl er, 1m Kllmplum die moderne Kunst (Berlin, 1919); all further
quotes from I )iluhlcr are to this edition. According to the version spread
3 3 2 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
by G. Apollinaire (Mercure de France, Oct. 16, 1911; Les Peintres cubistes,
Paris, 1913), the word "cube" was first used by Henri Matisse upon see­
ing a canvas by Braque at the Salon d' Automne in 1908. But the origi­
nator of the term was more likely Louis Vauxcelles, the critic of the
notable Parisian journal Gil BIas, who in his review about Braques' exhi­
bition at Kahnweiler's Gallery wrote: "He despises form, reduces every­
thing, places and figures and houses, to geometrical schemes, to cubes"
(Gil BIas, Nov. 1 1 , 1908; cf. E. Fry 1966, 50). By the way, Vauxcelles had
earlier christened yet another movement in art-Fauvism (1905). Paul
Cassirer was an editor, publisher, and devotee of modern art. Max
Pechstein (1881-1938) was one of the leading expressionist artists. The
French artist Julien- August Herve exibited nine canvases at the 1901
Salon des Independants under the common title "Expressionism."
2.
F. Landsberger, Impressionismus und Expressionismus (Leipzig, 1919).
The following citations are taken from this book.
3.
From a letter of Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo dated ca. August
1888; cited from H. Chipp, ed. 1968, 34-35.
4.
H. Bahr, Expressionismus (Munich, 1914).
5.
A possible misprint; one assumes that the author has in mind Joachim
Kirchner's book Junge Berliner Kunst (Wasmuth's Kunsthefte, 6. Heft,
1919).
6.
The German playwright Friedrich Hebbel (1813-1863).
7.
The article "Proletarian Art (from a letter of I.E. Repin)" is a reprint
from the newspaper Novaja russkaja zhizn' (Helsinki, Feb. 5, 1920).
Repin's negative attitude toward the political changes in Russia found a
curious expression in his refusal to help V. Shklovskij stay in Finland.
(He motivated his refusal by the fact that Shklovskij used the new,
"Bolshevik, " orthography; cf. p. 65 above.)
8.
N.B. Simakov, " Artistic Politics, " Segodnja (Riga, 1920 : 50, March 2).
9:
There is no book by Marinetti with this title. A. Parnis' suggestion that
Jakobson might have gotten information about a new work by Marinetti
C OM M ENTA R I E S TO PAG E S 1 5 7 - 1 6 3 / 3 3 3
from the Italian Communist Arturo Cappa, whom he met in Reval in
the spring of 1920, is reasonable (Jakobson 1987, 429; cf p. 82 above).
It is possible that Jakobson is referring to a book with a similar title
which appeared in 1919, Democraziafoturista, and was reprinted in its
entirety in the journal L1nternazionale, the organ of the "revolutionary
syndicalists." The following year Marinetti published another book on
politics, Al di la de! Comunismo (Milan, 1920).
10. Such Italian Futurists as Duilio Remondino, Vinicio Paladini, Carlo
Frassinelli, Ivo Pannaggi, Piero Illari, and Umberto Barbaro belonged to
this leftist, pro-Bolshevik group. Like the members of the Russian
avant-garde, they were convinced that "Futurist art will become the art
of communist society, the art of the proletariat," as Arturo Cappa for­
mulated it (L'arte e la rivoluzione, Milan, 1921). The leaders of the
Italian Communist Party, like the ideologists of the Soviet Communist
Party, took an extremely negative attitude toward the verbal experiments
of the Futurists; thus, for example, in 1922 the Central Committee of
the Italian Communist Party attacked the advocates of "Workers'
Futurism" (Futurismo operaio) as a decadent trend that should be eradi­
cated, and, in particular, V. Paladini for his brochure 1 + 1 + 1 + 1.
Dinamite. Poesie Proletarie. Rossopilt nero, published by the Turin section
of the Proletcult in spring of 1922.
DADA
The article was published in the journal Vestnik teatr [Theatrical Herald],
1921: 82 (February) under the general subtitle: "Letters from the West"; it is
signed with the initials R. Ja. All the quotations in the article are taken from
the Dadaist collection Dada Almanach, edited by Richard Huelsenbeck
(Berlin, 1920), which was issued to coincide with the end of the First
International Dada Fair (Grc?fie Internationale Dada-Messe), which opened in
Berlin on June 5, 1920. At the beginning ofJuly Jakobson travelled through
Berlin on his way to Prague; it is possible that he visited the Dadaists' exhi­
bition. The article is published according to its first edition with the correc­
tion of l"crtain inal"l"urarics. On Jakobson's and the Russian avant-garde's ties
3 3 4 / MY FUTURIST YEARS
with Dadaism, see Jakobson 1987, 435, and Jangfeldt's article "Roman
Jakobson, Zaum' and Dada" (1991). Authorial notes, as opposed to editorial
ones, are so indicated.
1.
The Treaty of Versailles went into effect in January, 1920.
2.
"Things have gone particularly badly for believers in the 'order of things'
[bytoviki] in Russia. One of them complained to me bitterly: 'What can
one write, when there is no "established order of things" [byt] left'. And
they've gone over to the Whites (Kuprin, Chirikov, Andreev, Bunin,
Averchenko, Merezhkovskij, A.Tolstoj). But they haven't found byt even
there. And so they've been busy, some with tearful petitions ( Andreev),
some with pogrom-like proclamations (Kuprin), some with outright
sponging (Merezhkovskij)." [ Author's note.] The heavily loaded term
byt suggests "the order of things," "mores," "convention," "daily grind."
See Jakobson's discussion of this term in relation to Majakovskij in his
essay "On a Generation that Squandered Its Poets" in the present vol­
ume, pp. 214-17.
3.
This expression became popular after the Chief of Police A.A.Makarov
spoke at the State Duma in connection with the shooting at the Lena
gold-fields in 1912 (Jakobson 1987, 436).
4.
The reference is to anti-semitic attacks on Einstein in the German press.
5.
O . Spengler, Der Untergang des Abendlandes, vol. 1 . The second volume
appeared in 1922.
6.
An inexact quote from V. Xlebnikov's ''A Conversation of Two Persons,"
originally published in Union of Youth (1913: 3); c£ Xlebnikov 19681972 V, 183 and the, English translation in Xlebnikov 1987, 288-91.
7.
N.I. Buxarin, The Economics ofthe Transitional Period, part 1 (Moscow,
1920).
8.
[Translator's Note: References to Dada Almanach are abbreviated as DA,
followed by two page refe(ences separated by a semicolon, the first to the
original edition, the second to the English translation edited by Malcolm
Green (London: Atlas, 1993).] R. Huelsenbeck, "Introduction," DA 3; 9.
C O MM ENTARI E S TO PAGE S 1 6 4 - 1 6 9 / 3 3 5
9.
T. Tzara, "Dada Manifesto 1918," DA 1 1 7; 122.
10.
All three quotes are from Huelsenbeck's "Introduction," DA 4, 5, 7; 10,
1 1 , 12.
1 1 . C. Ribemont-Dessaignes, "Dadaland," DA 97-98; 103-104. The text is
cited with abbreviations.
12. T. Tzara, "Dada Manifesto 1918," DA 123; 126.
13. R. Huelsenbeck, "First Dada Lecture in Germany," DA 108; 113.
14. F. Picabia, "Cannibal Dada Manifesto," DA 48; 56.
15. T. Tzara, "Dada Manifesto 1918," DA, passim.
16. W. Mehring, "Revelations," DA 73; 80.
1 7.
Abbreviated quotes from R. Huelsenbeck, "First Dada Lecture in
Germany," DA 107; 1 12. R. Huelsenbeck, "Introduction," DA 3-4; 9.
18. "What Did Expressionism Want?," DA 35; 44.
19. T. Tzara, "Dada Manifesto 1 918," DA 1 17; 122.
20. R. Huelsenbeck, "Introduction," DA 8; 13.
21. Mter he goes mad, the hero of V.F. Odoevskij's story "The Improv­
visatore" (1833) "ceaselessly speaks poetry in some sort of language that
is a mixture of all languages."
22.
A reference to an essay by A. Kruchenyx which compares a bill from the
"Triumphal Gates Laundry" with "eight lines from Onegin-in an
anguish of mad regrets, and so on," claiming that its "style is higher than
Pushkin!" (Secret Vices rfthe Academicians, Moscow, 1916, 14).
23. Cf. the poster " Art is Dead. Long Live Tatlin's New Machine Art!"
which was hunK at the Dada exhibition in Berlin and is reproduced in
LJA 41 ; 4H.
3 3 6 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
24.
A quote from T. Tzara's "Negro Songs, " DA 143; 147.
25. This and the following two quotations are taken-somewhat inexact­
ly-from Huelsenbeck's "Introduction," DA 5, 4, 8; 10- 13.
26. During the first anniversary of the October Revolution artists painted
the grass in the Alexander Park in Moscow.
27. T. Tzara, "Zurich Chronicle, " DA 13; 1 8 .
2 8 . W. Mehring, "Revelations, " DA 62; 69.
29. This quote (from an essay by Jean Cocteau) is given in a list of "News­
paper Reviews from Around the World " about Dada in DA 43; 51.
30. An inexact quote from T. Tzara, "Dada Manifesto 1918," DA 122, 125.
31. The reference is to rumors about the possible emigration of Einstein to
England; he was being badgered in Germany for being a pacifist and a
Jew. Einstein received the Medal of the Royal Society in 1925.
32. H. Baumann, "A Personal Dadaist Matter, " DA 33; 42.
33. T. Tzara, "Zurich Chronicle, " DA 22; 28.
34. R. Huelsenbeck, "Introduction, " DA 4; 10.
35. T. Tzara, "Dada Manifesto 1918," DA 1 17-1 8; 122.
36. T. Tzara, ibid, 123; 126.
37. R. Huelsenbeck, "First Dada Lecture in Germnay, " DA 106; 1 12.
38. F. Picabia, "Letter to Madame Rachilde," DA 109; 1 14.
39. R. Huelsenbeck, "Introduction, " DA 4; 10.
40. "In order to characterize somewhat this milieu, so distant from present­
day Russia, I will note a few features. In post-war Berlin the favorite
COMM ENTA R I E S T O PAG E S 1 6 9 - 1 7 3 / 3 3 7
places for spending one's time in a jolly, comfortable way are the clubs
and cafes of homosexuals. In Berlin there also appears a daily newspaper
of wide circulation, Homosexuelle Nachrichten. In Germany a two-volume
study by the scholar Bluher, Die Rolle der Erotik in der miinnlichen
Gesellschaft, enjoyed a stormy success. Its main proposition: 'It is not eco­
nomic nor ideological factors that condition the rise and development of
social and political life, but the erotic attraction of male toward male.'"
[Author's note.] The reference to Tzara is to his "Zurich Chronicle," DA
1 1 ; 15. H. Bluher's book was published in Jena in 1917-1918.
41. An inexact rendering of the last line of Huelsenbeck's "Introduction,"
DA 9; 14.
TRANSLATOR 'S NOTE
The last two critical works by Jakobson included here did not appear in the
first, Russian edition of this book. They have been added for the convenience
of the English reader, since they represent the most important works by
Jakobson on Xlebnikov and Majakovskij, two of the main "heroes" of this
book. The first is a translation by Edward J. Brown of extensive excerpts from
Jakobson's first book, The Newest Russian Poetry, which was written in 1919
and published in 1921. It is one of the first attempts to analyze the poetry of
Xlebnikov and remains one of the best. The second essay, also in Edward J.
Brown's translation, "On a Generation That Squandered Its Poets," was writ­
ten after Majakovsky's suicide and published in 1931. Though it is outside the
time frame of this edition proper, it is both a valuable introduction to
Majakovskij's work and one ofJakobson's most empassioned and brilliant lit­
erary-critical essays.
Tm: N EWEST
RUSSIAN PO ETRY: VELIMIR XLEBNIKOV [EXCERPTS]
Jakobson's tirst major scholarly monograph, Novejshaja russkaja poezija.
N"/Jro.w/..· p""7�y.i: " od(/II/,V /... X/dJllik07JII [The Ncwest Russian Poctry. A First
3 3 8 I MY F U TU R I S T YEARS
Sketch: Approaches to Xlebnikov] was first published in Prague at the begin­
ning of 1921. It was written as a preface for an unrealized edition of
Xlebnikov's collected works in 1919 and presented in lecture form several
times that year; on the history of the text see pages 293 and 321 n. 4 of the
present edition. The translation of major excerpts reprinted here is by the late
Professor Edward J. Brown of Stanford University. It originally appeared in
his important anthology Major Soviet Writers: Essays in Criticism (London­
Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1973), pp. 58-82. The editor and
publisher would like to thank Oxford University Press for their kind permis­
sion to republish it in the present volume. The notes to the text are by E.J.
Brown, with the exception of a few notes by Jakobson to the original edition,
which are so indicated.
1.
Stoglav (literally The Hundred Chapters), a collection containing the deci­
sions of a sixteenth-century Russian Church Chronicle.
2.
Russian literary scholars of the early part of the century.
3.
Premier of the Provisional Government i n 1917, under whose rule coun­
terfeiting was not uncommon.
4.
A.S. Griboedov (1795-1829), a dramatist, author of Woe from Wit.
Ermolov was the commander of Russian armies in the Caucasus, on
whose staff Griboedov worked.
5.
Syllabo-tonic is the technical name for the traditional metrical system of
Russian nineteenth-century poetry.
6.
This article was written in 1919.
7.
Filippo Tommaso Marinetti (1876-1944) was an Italian poet who
founded the futurist movement in literature.
8.
A.E. Kruchenyx (1888-1968), one of the most active members of the
futurist group, and a close collaborator of Xlebnikov.
9.
L.V. Shcherba (1880-1944), a Russian linguist, professor at the
University of Petersburg [later Leningrad University] .
COMM ENTARI E S TO PAG E S
1 73 - 1 9 8 I 3 3 9
10. Having accepted such a definition of poetry, we can term the method of
research resulting from it expressionistic. [Author's note.]
1 1 . Franz Saran, a German philologist who specialized in problems of
rhythm and meter.
12. Hans Sperber, a German linguist who emphasized the importance of
emotional factors in the development of language.
13. Compare the hyperbole used in everyday parlance: "That's quick: one
foot here, the other there." [Author's note.]
14. The pun is not translatable: "ostavarsja s nosom" actually means "to be
cheated."
15. Simeon Polocskij (1629-1680), a Russian cleric and literary man, one of
the earliest Russian poets.
16. M.Y. Lomonosov (171 1-1765), a Russian scientist and poet, a pioneer
in the development of modern metrics.
17. G.R. Derzhavin (1743-1816), and N.A. Nekrasov (1821-1877), were
poets and, in their time, innovators in verse form.
18. Eduard Hanslick (1825-1904), author of Vom Musikalische-Schonen
(Leipzig, 1854).
19. Vjacheslav Ivanov (1866-1949), another leading symbolist poet.
20. A.M. Peshkovskij (1873-1933), a Russian linguist and a specialist in the
problems of syntax.
21. A.A. Fet (1820-1892), one of the leading lyric poets of the nineteenth
century.
22. O.M. Brik (1888-1945), a leading theoretician of the Russian formalists.
21.
I ,iterally "oIK·s(· clollds," where an etYlTlological relationship of "ohese"
alld ,\· Iolld" is sl lggcsted hy "hollctic s i m i lari ty.
3 4 0 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
24. Molnienosna, literally, "bearing lightning."
25. Josef Zubat" (1885-1931), a Czech linguist, interested in problems of
comparative grammar.
26. I.F. Annenskij (1856-1909), a Russian poet who belonged to the "deca­
dent" movement.
27. See his article "Zvukovye povtory" ["Sound Repetitions"]
(Petrograd, 1919). [Author's note.]
m
Poetika
28. Elena G. Guro (1877-19 13), a poet and member of the Cubo-futurist
group.
29. Franz von Stuck ( 1863-1928), a German painter who specialized in
allegorical subjects.
30. F.F. Fortunatov (1848-1914), a Russian linguist, interested in compara­
tive linguistics.
3 1 . V K. Trediakovskij (1703-1769), a poet and theoretician of verse, one of
the creators of the metrical system in use during the late eighteenth and
the nineteenth century.
ON A GENERATION THAT SQUANDERED ITS POETS
This essay, Jakobson's response to Vladimir Majakovskij's suicide on April
14, 1930, first appeared in a shorter German version in Slavische Rundschau.
The full Russian text, entitled 0 pokolenii rastrativshem svoix poi:tov, appeared
in a booklet, together with an essay by D. Svjatopolk-Mirskij, Smert'
Vladimira Majakovskogo [The Death of Vladimir Majakovskij], Berlin:
Petropolos, 1931. The translation reprinted here by EJ Brown, which first
appeared in his Major Soviet Writers: Essays in Criticism (London-Oxford­
New York: Oxford University Press, 1973), pp. 7-32, has been slightly revised
C O M M E N TARI E S TO PAG E S 1 9 8 - 2 3 2 I 3 4 1
by Stephen Rudy. It i s reprinted here with the kind permission o f Oxford
University Press. The notes are by E.]. Brown, except as indicated.
1.
Il'ja L 'vovich Sel'vinskij (1899-1968), the leader of a modernist group
of poets known as "constructivists." Nikolaj Aseev (1889-1963) was a
poet close to the futurist movement.
2.
When we say "chamber" (kamernaja), we certainly d o not intend to
detract from the value of their work as poetic craftsmanship. The poet­
ry of Evgenij Baratynskij or ofInnokentij Annenskij, for instance, might
be called "chamber verse." [Author's note.]
3.
Xlebnikov himself describes his own [alter ego's] poetic death using sui­
cide imagery: "What? Zangezi's dead!1 Not only that, he slit his own
throat'! What a sad piece of news!! What sorrowful news!! He left a
short note:! 'Razor, have my throat!'1 The wide iron sedgel Slit the
waters of his life,! He's no more." [Author's note.]
4.
Leonid Nikolaevich Andreev (1871-1919), a writer of short stories and
plays pessimistic in content and symbolic in manner.
5.
"New name,! tear oml flyl into the space o f the world dwellingl thou­
sand-year-oldl low sky,! vanish, you blue-ass!1 It is I./ I, II II II II II the
inspired sewage-disposal man of the earth."
6.
A nearly untranslatable Russian word which suggests "mores," "conven­
tion," the "established way oflife," the "daily grind," "middle-class values,"
and so forth.
7.
Komi, an aboriginal non- Russian minority who live north and east of the
Ural mountains and speak a language belonging to the Finno-Ugrian
group.
8.
Petr Jakovlevich Chaadaev (1794-1856), author o f a famous "philosoph­
ical letter" which was highly critical of Russian culture and Russian life.
9.
Nikolaj E Fcdorov (1828-1903) was a Russian philosopher who main­
tained that the physical resurrection of the dead should become a major
projl'ct of l'h ristl'lldolll.
3 4 2 / MY F U T U R I S T Y E A R S
1 0 . The title o f a n early collection o f poems.
1 1 . Bela Kun (1886?-1940?), Hungarian Communist, head of the short­
lived Hungarian Soviet government in 1919.
12. These are all prominent poets of the first three decades of the nineteenth
century.
C O M M E N TARI E S TO PAG E S 2 3 3 - 2 5 4 / 3 43
PA RT F O U R - V E R S E A N D P R O S E
JUVENILIA
Poems 1 and 2 are published from copies in the Jakobson Archive at M.LT.
which appear to be transcribed in Jakobson's mother's handwriting.
FUTURIST POEMS
Poem 3 is a fragment of a poem Jakobson worked on in June of 1914; it is
quoted by the author in SW VII, 358. Poems 4 and 6 were published in
Transrational Boog (1915).
Poem 5 is cited in A. Kruchenyx's book Transrationalists (Petrograd, 1922), 16.
Poem 7, "How Many Fragments Have Scattered" is an "oblique satire" of
Majakovskij's urban poetry; see p. 25 above. The note "(sic)" belongs to the
author. The manuscript of the Russian original is in the Archive of A.E.
Parnis and contains comments in Kruchenyx's hand in the margins. The
poem is signed Roman Jaljagrov. In his preserved letters and poetics manu­
scripts Jakobson used the signature RJa. or Roman Jaljagrov. The form
Aljagrov is used in Transrational Boog (1915) and the essay "The Tasks of
Artistic Propaganda" (1919).
Poem 8. The original is in the Archive of A. E. Panis. The margins contain
comments in Kruchenyx's hand. In the fourth line the word blednotelyj 'pale­
bodied' is replaced hy the word melotelyj 'chalk-bodied', apparently in the
s,ime hand; ct: p. 2S ahoYt'.
3 4 4 I MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
J OCULAR POEMS
Poems 9-10 were written in March-April 1919 at the Briks' apartment on
Poluektovyj Lane in Moscow. Besides Jakobson, Majakovskij and Pasternak
took part in a game of bouts-rimes. Xlebnikov was also present. In the first
round, all the rhyme pairs were given; in the second-only the words to be
rhymed, which included: Voronezh, stena 'insole', na stenu 'up/on the wall',
masle 'butter', Punin, and Al'tman. The word "Voronezh" is explained by the
fact that Jakobson and Majakovskij "had planned to go to Voronezh to rent a
place for the summer" (Katanjan 1975, 82; cf. p. 43 above). The original man­
uscripts are in the Archive of LJu. Brik.
Poem 1 1 was incribed in the beginning of 1920 in the album that the writer
Kornej Chukovskij kept at his summer dacha in the Finnish village Kuokkala
outside Petersburg. It was jokingly called Chukokkala, mixing the writer's
name and that of the village, and contains remarkable autographs of Russian
writers and artists of the period. (See Chukovskij 1979, 20.)
Poem 12 is dated 1918 or 1919 conjecturally on the basis of its content. The
mention of Roederer champagne is not fortuitous; Jakobson told the editor of
the present volume that before the revolution he had composed advertising
jingles for that brand. Martin Ivanovic Lacis (1888-1938) was, from mid1918, the head of Cheka, the difficult but successful work of which he report­
ed on in the book The Extraordinary Commissions in the Battle with the
Counter-revolution (Moscow, 1921). He was repressed under Stalin. Nikolaj
Vasil'evich Krylenko (1885-1938) was a professional revolutionary who at the
beginning of 1918 "transferred to the Department of Justice in the division
for extraordinary trials, where with [his] direct participation show trials were
conducted" (Dejateli SSSR i Oktjabr'skoj Revoljucii, Moscow, 1989, 469). He
was repressed under Stalin, The original manuscript of the poem is in The
Jakobson Archive, M.LT.
COMM ENTA R I E S TO PAG E S 2 5 5 - 2 6 2 / 3 4 5
POEMS T O ELSA TRIOLET
Poems 13-15 relate to the period of the "great, warm friendship" between
Jakobson and Elsa, which had begun at the end of the summer of 1916. The
second poem is not dated, but it was written prior to June 27, 1918, when
Elsa graduated from the Division of Architecture and Construction of the
Moscow Women's Construction SchooL From the Elsa Triolet Archive,
CNRS, Paris.
Poem 15: the Epigraph to Elsa Triolet's first book, On Tahiti (Leningrad,
1925).
PROSE
This prose fragment, signed with the initials R.Ja. was published in the same
issue of the school journal Student's Thought [Mysl' uchenika}, as was the poem
"The Nightingale" (see Jangfeldt, ed. 1992, 1 12-14). The first two chapters
were published in the first issue of the journal, which has not been preserved,
and a continuation was proposed for the third issue. The text is published
from a copy of the journal preserved in Jakobson's Archive, which contains an
insignificant correction by hand.
3 4 6 I MY F U T U RI S T YEARS
ILLUSTRATI O N S I 3 4 7
L I S T O F I L L U S T RAT I O N S
Frontispiece. Roman Osipovich Jakobson. Moscow, 1918. The
Jakobson Foundation.
Illustrations
1 . The earliest known photo of R 0. Jakobson, Riga, c. 1 898, with his
mother's family, the Vol 'perts. He is sitting on the floor with his
cousins, to the right. His parents, Anna (Vol 'pert) and Osip
Jakobson, are above him to the right. In the center is his grandfa­
ther, Jakov Vol'pert. The Jakobson Foundation.
2. R 0. Jakobson. Moscow, 1901. The Jakobson Foundation.
3. Standing, from left: Unknown, S.O. Jakobson, 1. Vol 'pert (with
cap), Eva (Vol 'pert) Kaplan-Kaplanskij, L.Ju. Kagan (Lili Brik) ,
Anna (Vol 'pert) Jakobson. Sitting: Henriette Vol 'pert, M. Vol 'pert
(on her lap). On the ground: RO. Jakobson, E.Ju. Kagan (Elsa
Triolet). Moscow, 1 903 . The Jakobson Foundation.
4. RO. Jakobson. Moscow, 1905. The Jakobson Foundation.
5. RO. Jakobson. Prague, 1920. The Jakobson Foundation.
6. Marija Sinjakova, portrait of Velimir Xlebnikov, n.d. Courtesy of
Charlotte Douglas.
7. Boris Pasternak, 1 930s.
8. Vladimir Majakovskij, 1920s. Photograph by Laszlo Moholy-Nagy.
9. Jakobson with the Staff of the Soviet Red Cross Mission. (The
man with the beard in the center is its director, Dr. Gillerson.)
Terezin, 1920. The Jakobson Foundation.
1 0. From top to bottom: R.O. Jakobson, Teodor Nette, Zemit-Zimin.
Prague, summer 1920. The Jakobson Foundation.
1 1 Elsa Trinlet. Paris, May 1 92 1 . Archive nr y.v. Katanjan.
3 4 8 I MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
12. L.Ju. and O.M. Brik, R.O. Jakobson, V.V. Majakovskij. Bad
Flinsberg, July 1923. The Jakobson Foundation.
13. Philological meeting in Brno, late 1926. From left to right: R.O.
Jakobson, N.S. Trubetzkoy, P.G. Bogatyrev, and N.N. Durnovo.
The Jakobson Foundation.
14. The folklorist P.G. Bogatyrev with a leopard cub. Prague Zoo,
1928. The Jakobson Foundation.
15. From top to bottom: Karel Teige, R.O. Jakobson, Vitezslav
Nezval. Brno, 1933. The Jakobson Foundation.
16. R O. Jakobson. Gotland, 1977. Archive of Bengt Jangfe1dt.
WORKS C I T E D / 3 4 9
LIST OF WORKS CITED
Note o n transliteration o f Russian: the system used i n this bibliogra­
phy and throughout the volume is a modified form of that followed
in the InternationalJournal if Slavic Linguistics and Poetics, the main
exceptions being that digraphs are used instead of the diacritical sign
hcieek, e.g. ch rather than c, and that the "soft sign" ( mjagkij znak) is
represented by a prime mark ( ') so as to avoid confusion with the
English apostrophe.
While this bibliography cannot claim to be exhaustive, an attempt has
been made to include the original Russian titles of works cited in the
text in English translation, with the exception of newspapers and
journals. Where English translations are available, they have been
noted. [Translator's note - S.R.J
Alekseev, M.P. et aI, eds., 1976. Ezhegodnik rukopisnogo otdela
Pushkinskogo doma na 1 9 74 god [Yearbook of the Manuscript
Division of the Pushkin House for 1974l Leningrad.
Al 'vek, 1927. Naxlebniki Xlebnikova [Xlebnikov's Hangers-Onl
Moscow.
Apollonio, u., ed., 1973. Futurist Manifestoes. London.
Armstrong, D. and C. H. van Schooneveld, eds., 1977. Roman
Jakobson. Echoes ifHis Scholarship. Lisse.
Aseev, N., 1983. "Iz vospominanij 0 Majakovskom (Majakovskij i
Gor 'kij)" [From Reminiscences of Majakovskij (Majakovskij and
Gor'kiD], Literaturnoe nasledstvo 93: Iz istorii sovetskoj literatury
1 920-x i 1 930-x godov. Moscow.
Babkin, D., 1984. " Vstrechi s Majakovskim" [Meetings with
MajakovskijJ, in V. Majakovskij v sovremennom mire. Leningrad.
Ball, H., 1974. Flight Out ifTime. A Dada Dial)', ed. by J. Elderfield.
New York.
3 5 0 / MY F UT U R I S T YEARS
Bann, Stephen and John E. Bowlt, eds., 1973. Russian Formalism: A
Collection ofArticles and Texts in Translation. Edinburgh.
Berberova, N., 1983. Kursiv moj. New York, 2nd ed. Cf. the English
translation: The Italics are Mine. New York, 1969.
Blok, A., 1982. "Darstvennye nadpisi Bloka na knigax i fotografijax"
[Blok's Dedications on Books and Pictures], Literaturnoe nasledstvo
92:3 : Aleksandr Blok. Novye materialy i issledovanija. Moscow.
Bogdanov, A., 1918. Nauka ob obshchestvennom soznanii (kratkij kurs
ideologicheskoj nauki v voprosax i otvetax) [The Science of Social Con­
sciousness (A Short Course in Qyestions and Answers)]. Moscow.
Bogatyrev, K., 1982. Poet-perevodchik Konstantin Bogatyrev. Drug
nemeckoj literatury [The Poet-Translator Konstantin Bogatyrev. A
Friend of German Literature], ed. V. Kazak. Munich.
Bogatyrev, P., 1923. Cheshskij kukotnyj i russkij narodnyj teatr [Czech
Puppet and Russian Folk Theater]' Berlin-Petrograd.
Brik, L., 1934. "Iz vospominanij" [From Reminiscences], in the
almanach S Majakovskim [With Majakovskij]. Moscow.
--, 1942. Shchen (Iz vospominanij 0 Majakovskom) [Shchen. From
Reminiscences about Majakovskij.] Molotov.
--, 1963. "Majakovskij i chuzhie stixi" [Majakovskij and the Poetry
of Others] , in V Majakovskij v vospominanijax sovremennikov.
Moscow.
--, "Dnevnik" [Diary] ' Archive of L. Ju. Brik.
--, "Kak bylo delo" [Thus It Went]' Archive of L. Ju. Brik.
Brik, 0., 1917. "Zvukovye povtory" [Sound Repetitions] , in Sborniki
po teorii poeticheskogo jazyka [Collections on the Theory of Poetic
Language] II. Petrograd.
, 1964. Two Essays on Poetic Language ( Michigan Slavic
Studies, 5). Ann Arbor.
Brown, C., 1973. Mandelstam. Cambridge.
Bunin, 1., 1950. Vospominanija [Memoirs]' Paris.
Burlj uk, D., 1973. "Moe znakomstvo s Alekseem Maksimovichem
Gor 'kim (1915-1 9 1 7 gg.)" [My Acquaintance with Aleksej
Maksimovich Gor'kij (1915-1917)], in Knigi. Arxivy. Avtografj.
Moscow.
Buxarin, N., 1920. Ekonomika perexodnogo perioda [The Economics of
the Transitional Period], 1. ,Moscow.
Chipp, H., ed., 1968. Theories of Modern Art. A Sourcebook by Artists
and Critics. Berkeley-Los Angeles.
__
=
W O R K S CITED / 3 5 1
Chukovskij, K., 1979. Chukokkala. Moscow.
, 1980. "Iz dnevnika (1919-1921)" [From a Diary (1919-1921),
a publication of E. Chukovskaja], Voprosy literatury 10.
Effenburger, V., 1983. "Roman Jakobson and the Czech Avant-Garde
Between the Wars," American Journal ofSemiotics 2/3 .
Erbsloh, G., 1976. Pobeda nad solncem, ein futuristiches Drama von
Krufenych. Munich.
Foster, S., ed., 1988. "Event"Arts andArt Events. Ann Arbor.
Gasparov, M., 1977. "Legkij i tjazhelyj stix" [Light and Heavy Verse],
Studia Metrica et Poetica (Tartu) 2.
Geroi i zhertvy revoijucija [Heroes and Victims of the Revolution] .
Moscow, 1918.
Ginzburg, L., 1989. Chelovek za pis'mennym stolom [A Man at his
Writing Desk]. Leningrad.
Gleizes, A. and J. Metzinger, 1912. Du cubisme. Paris. C£ the partial
English trans. in Chipp, ed., 1968, 207-216.
Guro, E., 1914. Nebesnye verbijuzhata [Baby Camels of the Sky] . St.
Petersburg.
Hamsun, K., 1920. Hunger. New York.
Holenstein, E., 1975. Roman Jakobsons phiinomenologischer Struktur­
alismus. Frankfurt.
, 1987. "Jakobson's Philosophical Background," in Pomorska et
al., eds., 1987, 15-32.
Huelsenbeck, R., ed., 1920. Dada Almanach. Berlin. C£ the English
trans. , ed. by M. Green, Dada Almanac (London, 1993).
Ivanov, Vjacheslav V., 1987. "Poetika Romana Jakobsona" [Roman
Jakobson's Poetics], in Jakobson 1987, 5-22.
Jakobson, R., Selected Writings (abbreviated in this volumes as SW).I.
Phonological Studies (1966) . II. Word and Language (1971). III.
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--
__
3 5 2 I MY F U T U RI S T YEARS
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INDEX
Adamovich, E.V. 233
Afremov, F.N. 64, 298 n. 155
Agranov, Ja. 312 n. 238
Ajxenval'd,Ju. 303 n. 179
Alekseev, M.P. xxviii
Aljagrov 22, 103, 115, 276 n. 44, 277
n. 52, 3 14, 330, 343
Al 'tman, N. xvii, 42, 256, 281 n. 79,
344
Al'vek 294 n. 143
Amari, V. (Cetlin, M.) 46, 285 n. 99
Andersen, H. Chr. 104, 218
Andreev, L.N. 45, 167, 213, 276 n.
49, 334 n. 2, 341 n. 4
Annenskij, I.F. 5, 199, 340 n. 26, 341
n. 2
Antokol 'skij, P. 285 n. 99
Antonov-Ovseenko, V.A. 51, 89f.,
288 n. 1 16, 308 n. 216
Apollinaire, G. 332 n. 1
Aquinas, St. Thomas 156
Aragon, L. 63, 297 n. 153
Archipenko, A. 159
Aristotle 151, 330 nn. 11 and 12
Aseev, N.N. 61ff., 90, 202, 211, 235,
288 n. 113, 296 n. 146, 341 n. 1
Averchenko, A. T. 97
Axmatova, A.A. 312 n. 236, 318 n. 6
Badt, K. 159
Bahr, H. 158 332 n. 4
Bajdin, S. 6, 24, 34, 107, 115 270 n.
3, 317 n. 3, 320 n. 3
Balashov, A. 1 1
Ball, H. xivf.
Balla, G. 329 n. 5
Bal'mont, K.D. 14£, 274 nn. 27 and
29, 285 n. 99
Bal'shin, Ju. Ja. 66£, 70, 299 n. 161
Baltrushaitis, Ju. 285 n. 99
Baratynskij, E.A. 341 n. 2
Barbaro, U. 333 n. 10
Barbusse, H. 121, 322 n. 9
Barlach, E. 159
Batjushkov, K. N. 240
Bauman, H. 171, 336 n. 32
Beardsley, A. 170
Bednyj, D. 233
Beethoven, L. von 190, 244
Begljarova, T. 33, 278 n. 68
Belinskij, V.G. 309 n. 222
Belodedova, I. xxvi
Belyj, A. (B. Bugaev) 4, 10£, 46, 106,
285 nn. 99 and 100, 317 n. 1
Benedict, J. xxxi
Benois, A. 281 n.79, 282 n. 80
Benoit, P. 322 n. 10.
Bereberova, N. 327 n. 3
3 6 0 I MY F UT U R I S T YEARS
Bernhardt, S. 36
Biebl, K. 63, 297 n. 152
Bloch, A. 158
Blok, A. A. 4, 46, 62, 96, 210f£, 230,
285 n. 98, 301 n. 176, 3 1 1 n. 232,
318 n. 6
Bljumkin,Ja. G. 50f., 288£ n. 115
Bltiher, H. 337 n. 40
Bobrov, S. P. 270 n. 1
Boccaccio, G. 188
Boccioni, U. 329 n. 5
Bogatyrev, K. P. 97, 299 n. 166, 312
n. 233
Bogatyrev, P. G. 29, 31, 45, 68, 71,
90, 270 n. 2, 278 n. 63, 280 n. 77,
283 n. 88, 286 n. 108, 293 n. 139,
312 n. 233
Bogdanov, A. 330 n. 8
Bogdanov, V. 53, 150
Boguslavskaja, Ks. 13
Bol'shakov, K. 283 n. 90
Bonch-Bruevich, V.D. 71, 301 n.
173
Botticelli, S. 147
Braque, G. 332 n. 1
Breshko-Breshkovskaja, E.K. 281 n.
79
Brik, L. (Lili) Ju. xvi, xxix, 34ff., 3745, 57£, 60f£, 66-69, 70£, 87,
94f£, 99, 109, 1 13, 115, 118, 123,
127f£, 132, 139, 274 n. 29, 278 n.
69, 279 n. 71, 280 n. 74, 283 nn.
89 and 90, 285 n. 97, 287 nn. 1 12
and 113, 290 n. 120, 293 n. 139,
295 n. 145, 299 nn. 163 and 164,
300 n. 167, 301 n. 172, 302 n. 177,
308 n. 217, 3 1 1 n. 232, 3 12 nn.
234, 235, and 237, 314, 319 n. 4,
320 n. 1, 322 n. 1, 325 n. 2, �27
n.4, 344
Brik, O. (Osip; diminutive Osja) M.
xvif., xxix, 29, 34f£, 36, 45, 49,
55£, 57£, 60f£, 66-69, 71, 76, 87,
94£, 99£, 1 10, 112, 117, 121, 124,
126f£, 131£, 139£, 201, 236, 274
n. 29, 276 n. 49, 280 n. 77, 282 n.
81, 283 n. 84, 283£ n. 90, 284 nn.
92-94, 285 n. 97, 287 nn. 1 12 and
113, 293 n. 139, 295 n. 145, 299 n.
164, 300 nn. 167 and 169, 301 n.
172, 302 n. 177, 3 1 1 n. 229, 3 12 n.
237, 319 n. 4, 320 n. 2, 322 n. 11,
322 n. 1, 323 n. 5, 325 n. 3, 327 n.
4, 339 n. 22, 344
Brodskij, 1. 39
Brjusov, Y. 15, 80, 191, 204, 274 n.
29, 305 n. 199
Brown, E.]. xxiv, 337£, 340£
Bunin, LA. 282 n. 80, 334 n. 2
Burljuk, D.D. 7, 11, 25, 28£, 49, 51,
57, 60, 97, 271 nn. 1 1 and 12, 273
n. 22, 277 n. 50, 281 n. 79, 282 n.
80, 285 n. 99, 286 n. 107, 287 n.
1 1 1 , 292 n. 135, 3 1 1 n. 231, 316 n.
15, 328, 331 n. 3
Burljuk, N.D. 49, 287 n. 111, 292 n.
135
Burljuk, Y.D. 287 n. 1 1 1
Buslaev, A.A. 31, 3 1 , 60, 73, 270 n.
2, 278 n. 64, 293 n. 139
Buslaev, F.L 31, 278 n. 64
Buslaev, V.A. 293 n. 139
Buxarin, N.I. 165, 334 n. 7
Byron, Lord 187
Cappa, A. 82, 306 n. 203, 333 n. 9
Cappa, B. 306 n. 203
Carra, C. 162, 329 n. 5, 330 n. 9
Cassirer, E. x
I N D EX / 3 6 1
Cassirer, P 156, 332 n. 1
Cezanne, P 5£, 146, 150, 244
Chaadaev, PJa. 215, 341 n. 8
Chekrygin, V. 270 n. 4
Chexov, A.P 97
Chicherin, A. 80, 89, 285 n. 100,
307f. n. 215
Chirikov, E.N. 334 n. 2
Chukovskij, K.l. 80, 119, 256, 288 n.
113, 305 n. 232, 344
Ciurlionis, M.K. 104, 315 n. 10
Cocteau, J. 336 n. 29
Copernicus, N. 149, 165
Craig, G. 4
Cvetaeva, M.l. 285 n. 99
Dache, Mademoiselle 36£, 129, 136,
280 n. 76, 323 n. 8
Dal', V. 9
Danilov, Kirsha 299 n. 165
D'Anthes, G.I. 242
. Diiubler, T. 156, 158, 160f£, 331 n. 1
Derzhavin, G.R. 73 , 189, 198, 303 n.
183, 339 n. 17
Diaghilev, S. 28
Dobroljubov, N.A. 14
Dobychina, N.E. 281£. n. 79
Dostoevskaja, A.G. 328
Dostoevskaja, L.F. 328
Dostoevskij, F.M. 80, 106, 170, 186,
224, 228
Brothers Karamazov 186
Raw Youth, A 224
Durnovo, N. N. 53, 64£
Dvorak, A. 308 n. 215
Einstein, A . 3 , 77, 165, 171, 225,
227, 334 n. 4, 336 n. 31
Eisenhower, D.D. 281 n. 78
Ejxenbaum, B. 37
Elias, J. 156
Enukidze, A. 307 n. 214
Erbsliih, G. 315 n. 11
Erenburg, l.G. 140, 285 n. 99
Ermolov, A.P 175
Esenin, S.A. 49, 53, 211£, 233£
Evreinov, N.N. 4
Fedorov, N.F. 77, 225, 341 n. 9
Feininger, L. 159
Fet, A.A. 192, 339 n. 21
Figner, V. 281 n. 79
Filonov, P 25
Fitzpatrick, S. xviii
Flejshman, L. xxxi
Fortunatov, F.F. 32, 207, 340 n. 30
Fotieva, L. 303 n. 184
Franchetti (Franketti), V.F. 55, 291
n. 129
Frassinelli, C. 333 n. 10
Friche, V. 54, 291 n. 125
Fridljand (Kramova), N. F. xxxi , 80.
Fritsch, E. 159
Gaj-Men 'shoj, A. 73, 82, 303 n. 182
Gallen-Kallela, A. 282 n. 80
Gal'perin, S.V. 322 n. 9
Game in Hell, A [Igra v adu]
(Kruchenyx and Xlebnikov) 8, 19
Gasparov, M.L. 272£ n. 19
Gauguin, P 6
Gens, 1. xxxi
Gillerson, Dr. 84£, 88
Ginzburg, L.Ja. 312 n. 236
3 6 2 / MY F U T U RI S T YEARS
Gleizes, A. xix£., 146, 151, 318 n. 7,
329 n. 1 , 330 n. 10
Goethe, J.W. von 191, 240
Faust 191
Werther 191
Gogo!', N.V. 44, 97, 181, 183, 185£.,
254, 229
Dead Souls 229
"Nose, The" 186
"Terrible Vengeance, N' 185
Go!'cshmidt, V.R. 48, 286 n. 107
Goldoni, C. 3 17, 318 n. 5
Goldstein, K. xiii
Goncharov, LA. 187, 329 n. 4
Oblomov 187, 329 n. 4
Goncharova, N.S. 22, 28, 108, 1 15,
162, 270 n. 4, 272 n. 13, 318 n. 5
Gor'kij, M. 5, 38, 50£., 140, 211,
250, 281 n. 79, 282 n. 80, 287£. n.
113, 288 nn. 114 and 115, 298 n.
159, 325 n. 3
Gorodeckij, S.M. 16, 274 n. 3 1
Grammont, M . 36, 280 n . 75
Green, M. 334 n. 8
Griboedov, A.S. 17, 175, 240, 338 n. 4
Grimm, Brothers 187
Grinkrug, L. A. 67, 123, 286 n. 104,
299 n. 164, 322 n. 1
Grosz, G. 159
Grunenberg, A. 159
Gugunava, Princess 6
Gumilev, N. 80, 210£.
Gumilina, A. 58, 68f., 292 n: 136,
300 n. 167
Gurvic-Gurskij, S. 42, 128, 283 n.
88, 323 n. 4
Gur'jan 39
Gur'jan, G.D. and E.G. 64, 81, 298
n. 154
Guro, E.G. 202, 317 n. 2, 318 n. 7,
340 n. 28
Hamsun, K. xiii£., 120, 171
Hanslick, E. 190, 339 n. 18
Hauptman, G. 318 n. 6
Haydn, F.J. 190
Hebbel, F. 159, 332 n. 6
Heckendorf, F. 159
Heine, H. 240
Hellman, B. xxxi
Herve, J.-A. 157, 332 n. 1
Hoffmann, E.T.A. 240
Hofmeister, A. 91, 309 n. 223
Holenstein, E. xxvii£.
Hora, J. 63, 90, 296 n. 150
Horace 194
Huelsenbeck, R. xxi£., 166f£., 172,
333, 334 n. 8, 335 nn. 10, 13, 17
and 20, 336 nn. 25, 31, 37, 39, 337
n. 41
Hundred Chapters, The [Stoglav] 338
n. 1
Husserl, E. 278 n. 65
Huysmans, J. 318 n. 6
Ikhnaton 208
Illari, P. 333 n. 10
Inber, V. M. 285 n. 99
Ivan IV ("The Terrible"), Tsar 11
Ivanov, Vjacheslav 1. 104, 191, 285 n.
99, 302 n. 179, 315 n. 10, 339 n. 19
Ivanov, Vjacheslav Vsevolodovich
xxvii, xxx£.
Izrailevich, A.L. 287 n. 1 12
Izrailevich,Ja.L. 49, 287 nn. 112 and
113
Jacques: see Izrailevich, Ja.
Jaeckel, W. 159
I N DEX / 3 6 3
Jakobson, A. (RJ.'s mother) 322 n. 2,
343
Jakobson, O. (RJ.'s father) 322 n. 2
Jakobson, R passim
Newest Russian Poetry [Novejshaja
russkaja poezija] 58, 80, 293 nn.
138 and 140, 300 n. 169, 321 n. 4,
322 n. 1, 324 n. 1 (to letter 13)
On Czech Verse [0 cheshskom stixe]
86, 307 n. 208
Transrational Boog (with A.
Kruchenyx) [Zaumnaja gniga] 17,
25, 275 n. 37, 277 n. 52, 3 15 n. 6
Jakobson, S. (RJ.'s brother) 322 n. 2
Jakobson, S.N. (RJ.'s first wife) 91£,
133, 137ff., 141
Jakovleva, T. 93, 310 n. 227
Jakubinskij, L. 37, 80
Jakulov, G. 7, 48
Jaljagrov: see Aljagrov
Jangfeldt, B. xvii, xxiiif£, xxix, 269,
305 n. 225, 334
Jangfeldt-Jakubovich, J. xxxi
Janov, G. 80£, 306 n. 200
Janov (father of G. Janov) 33, 306 n.
200
Jaroslavskij, E. 224
Jastrebov, N. 307f. n. 215
Jawlensky, A. von 158
Jensen, P. xxxi
Jurkun, Ju. 41, 283 n. 86
Kagan, EJu. 109f£, 111, 121, 124,
318, 322 n. 7
Kagan, UA. 314, 324 n. 1
Kahnweiler, D.-H. 332 n. 1
Kaljuzhnyj, N. 90, 308 n. 217, 310 n.
224
Kamencv, L.R. 291 n. 1 26, :107 n.
214
Kameneva, O.D. 55, 291 n. 126
Kamenskij, V.V. 48, 277 n. 50, 285 n.
99, 289 n. 1 17, 316 n. 15
Kan, I.L. Sf., 12, 14, 18, 109, 270 n. 2
Kandinskij, V. xv, xvii, 13, 55£, 158£,
274 n. 26, 292 n. 130
Kliinge 274 n. 26
On the Spiritual in Art [0 duxovnom v iskusstve] 13
Kant, I. 164£
Karamzin, N.M. 91, 309 n. 222
Katanjan, V.A. 272 n. 12, 274 n. 28
Katanjan, V.V. xxxi
Kautsky, K. 331 n. 4
Keglsberger, A. 159
Kerenskij, A.F. 174, 338 n. 3
Kerzhencev, P. 306 n. 204
Khayam, Omar 285 n.95
Kierkegaard, S. 99, 312 n. 237
Kikin, A. A. 240£
Kirchner, J. 332 n. 5
Klee,'P. 158
Klyshko, N. K. 82£, 306 n. 204
Kock, P. de 318 n. 6
Kodicek, J. 92
Kogan, P. 302 n. 179
Kohlhoff, W. 159
Kot'COy, A.V. 73
Kol'cov, M.E. 232, 238, 3 12 n. 238
Kollontaj, A.M. 283 n. 82
Kon, R 69
Konchalovskij, P. 7
Kozlinskij, V.1. 42, 283 n. 87
Kramskoj, I. 284 n. 94
Krandievskaja, N. 21
Krauskopf, B. 159
Kruchenyx, A.E. xxix, 8, 16ff., 24f.,
60f., 63, 103f£, 106£, 114, 121,
177, 271 n. 11, 272 n. 13, 274 n.
3 6 4 / MY F UTURI ST YEARS
31, 275 nn. 32, 35, 36 and 38, 276
n. 44, 277 nn. 50 and 52, 313, 314
n. 2, 315 nn. 6 and 11, 316 n. 15,
317 n. 2, 322 n. 1 1 , 335 n. 22, 338
n. 8, 343
Actual Stories and Drawings by
Children [Sobstvennye rasskazy
risunki dete;1 317 n. 2
Explodity [ Vzorvar] 317 n. 3
Kruus, R. xxxi, 318 n. 6
Krylenko, N.V. 255, 344
Kuchumov 275 n. 35
Kul'bin, N.
Kuleshov, L. 300 n. 168
Kun, B. 237, 342 n. 11
Kunzig, E.M. 159
Kuprin, A.1. 334 n. 2
Kushner, B. 128, 139, 3 1 1 n. 229,
323 n. 5
Kuzmin, M.A. 41, 280 n. 77, 283 nn.
85 and 86
Lacan, ]. xiv
Lacis, M.1. 258, 344
Landsberger, F. 157f£, 160, 332 n. 2
Larionov, M. xxvii, 6, 20f£, 28, 1 15,
1 19, 162, 270 n. 4, 272 n. 13, 275
n. 41
Lavinskaja, E.A. 312 n. 238
Le-Dantju, M. 270 n. 4, 282 n. 80
Lehmbruck, VV. 159
Lenin, V. 39£, 72, 76, 154, 227, 282
n. 81, 283 n. 82, 301 n. 175, 303 n.
184, 331 n. 4
Lentulov, A. 7
Leonardo da Vinci 151
Lermontov, M. 240, 242
Lerner, N.O. 174
Leshkova, O. 281 n. 80
Lessing, G.E. 187
Levental', M. 33
Levi-Strauss, C. 19
Levidov, M.]u. 82, 306 n. 202
Levin 84f£, 88, 308 n. 215
Levitan, I. 271 n. 10
Litvinov, M.M. 306 n. 204
Livshic, B. 13, 25
Lomonosov, M.Y. 189, 339 n. 16
Lotman, Ju. xiv, xxxi
Lotman, M. xxxi
Lukashevich, P. A. 103, 314 n. 5
Lunacharskij, A. xvi, xviii, 72f£, 1 19,
223, 239, 300 n. 169, 301 nn. 175
and 176, 302 n. 177, 307 n. 214
Macha, K. 327 n. 3
Majakovskaja, L.v. 231, 312 n. 234
Majakovskaja, O.V. 231
Majakovskij, Vladimir (diminutive,
Volodja) V. xvi£, xxiv, xxvii, xxixf,
5, 7£, 12, 15, 17, 19, 22£, 25, 28,
32-36, 38ff., 42f£, 45-53, 58-62,
63, 66-78, 79, 83, 85, 87ff., 89-92,
92-100, 113, 115, 118£, 124, 126ff.,
173, 180, 183£, 190, 192, 199, 202,
209-45, 269, 271 nn. 11 and 12,
273 n. 24, 274 nn. 25, 28 and 29,
275 nn. 36 and 39, 276 nn. 43, 46
and 49, 277 n. 50, 278 nn. 60 and
69, 280 nn. 74 and 78, 281 n. 79,
282 n. 80, 283 nn. 83, 85 and 8789, 285 nn. 99, 100 and 102, 286
nn. 104 and 108, 287 nn. 1 12 and
1 13, 288 n. 1 14, 289 n. 1 18, 290 nn.
1 19-21, 304 nn. 188, 189, 192 and
193, 305 n. 199, 308 nn. 217 and
220, 309 nn. 221-23, 310 nn. 22428, 311 nn. 229-32, 312 nn. 233-36
I N D EX I 3 6 5
and 238, 323 n. 5, 327 nn. 2 and 4,
330, 334 n. 2, 337, 340, 343£.
About That [Pro eto] 53, 212,
216, 218, 223, 226, 228, 232,
235f£., 278 n. 60, 300 n. 168, 304
n. 188, 310 n. 225
All that Majakovskij Composed
[ Vse sochinennoe Vladimirom Maja­
kovskim] 233, 319 n. 7
At the Top if My Voice [ Vo ves'
golos] 92
Backbone Flute, A [Flejta­
pozvonochnik] 34, 3 10 n. 226
Bathhouse, The [Banja] 74, 222,
226, 237, 239
Bedbug, The [Klop] 53, 74, 92,
222£., 226, 237£., 303 n. 185, 310
n. 224
Bound in Film [Zakovannaja
jitmo;] 236, 287 n. 113
"Brother Writers"
[Bratja
pisateli] 323 n. 1
"Bureaucratish" [Bjurokratijada]
303 n. 184
Cloud in Trousers, A [Oblako v
shtanax] 34£', 39, 48, 52, 69, 93,
218, 234f., 280 n. 74, 286 n. 108,
310 nn. 226 and 228, 322 n. 8
"Comrades, Let Me Share with
You My Impressions of Paris and
of Monet" [ Tovarishchi! Razreshite
mne . . . ] 303 n. 184
"Few Words About Myself, PI'
[Neskotko slov obo mne samom] 229
"Fifth International" [Pjatyj Inter­
naciona/J 219, 225£., 303 n. 184
"Forget About the Fireplace"
[Pozabud'pro kamin] 303 n. 185
"Fourth International" [Chetvertyj
InternacionalJ 225£.
"Homeward!" [Domoj.1 90, 220,
236
HowAre You? [Kak vypozhivaete?]
69, 229, 231, 300 n. 168
"Hymn to the Scholar" [Gimn
uchenomu] 226
I Ua] 213
I Love [Ljubiju] 92
"I Myself" Ua sam] 311 n. 231
"Left March" [Levyj marsh]47
Man [Chelovek] 45£., 212£', 216,
221, 227£., 232
"Morning" [Utro] 13
"My Discovery of America"
[Moe otkrytie Ameriki] 222
Mystery-Bouffe [Misterija-buj}]
44, 77£., 222, 228
"Night" [Noch'} 13
"Noises, Noiselets, and Noisiks"
[Shumiki, shumy . . . ] 15
"Ode to the Revolution, An"
[Oda revoijucii] 47
150,000,000 46, 66, 69-73 78,
85, 87, 90, 96, 216£', 225, 227
"Order to the Army of Art"
[Prikaz po armii iskusstva] 243
"Our March" [Nash marsh] 47£.
"Shallow Philosophy in Deep
Place, PI' [Melkaja jilosoftja na
glubokyx mestax] 90, 235
"So Who Spends Holidays . . . "
[Kak kto provodit vremja, prazdniki
prazdnuja] 77
"Soviet Alphabet, PI' [Sovetskaja
azbuka] 51£.
"To His Beloved Self . . ." [Sebe,
ijubimomu . . . ] 213
"They Don't Understand a Thing"
[Nichego ne ponimajut] 48
"Type, PI' [ Tip] 221
3 6 6 / MY F UT U R I S T YEARS
War and the World [ Vojna i mir] 50,
218, 228f.
Makarov, A. 334 n. 3
Malevich, K. xvii, xxviif., 22-27, 107,
270, 276 nn. 48 and 49, 277 nn.
50, 54, and 55, 317 n. 1, 330
Malkin, B. F. 62, 233, 296 n. 147
Mallarme, S. 3, 8, 10, 189, 272 n. 17,
316
Mandel'shtam, N. 288f. n. 115
Mandel'shtam, O. E . 42, 62, 211,
288£ n. 115, 296 n. 146
Marc, F. 159
Marinetti, F.T. 20f£, 82, 104, 162,
166£, 176£, 272 n. 14, 275 n. 41,
276 n. 42, 306 n. 203, 313£, 316 n.
15, 332 n. 9, 338 n. 7
Markov, A.A. 30, 278 n. 61
Martov, Ju. 82
Martynov, D.P. 104, 316 n. 13
Martynov, S.N. 240, 242
Marx, K. 154, 331 n. 2
Mashkov, I. 7
Mathesius, B. 90, 308 n. 219
Mathesius, V. 86
Matisse, H. 5, 332 n. 1
Matjushin, M.V. xxviiif., 24ff., 270
n. 3, 277 n. 54, 313, 317, 320 n. 3,
329 n. 1
Matjushina, O.K. 108, 318 n. 8
McLean, H. xii
Mehring, W. 170, 335 n. 16, 336 n. 28
Meidner, L. 158
Mejerxol'd, Vs. (Meyerhold) 4
Merezhkovskij, D. S. 334 n. 2
Metzinger, J. xix£, 146, 151, 3 1 8 n.
7, 329 n. 1, 330 n. 10
Mickiewicz, A. 285 n. 95
Miljukov, P. 281 n. 78 and 79, 282 n.
8o.
Mil'man, A. 1. 7, 11, 271 n. 10
Mil'man, S. 7, 14
Mirbach, W. von 51, 288 n. 1 15
Miturich, P. 60, 294 n. 143
Morgunov, A. 24, 107
Mostovenko, P. 88f., 307 n. 214
Mozart, W.A. 190
Mueller, O. 159
Musatov, V. 271 n. 8
Nadja: see Fridljand, N.
Nadja (the cook) 100
Nejshtadt, v.I. 73, 286 n. 108, 287 n.
109, 293 n. 139
Nekrasov, N. A. 190, 303 n. 183, 339
n. 17
Nemirova, M. xxxi
Neruda, J. 308 n. 215
Nette, T. 84-88, 306 n. 206, 307 n.
209, 307 n. 212
Nezval, V. 63, 277 n. 58, 297 n. 152
Nicholas I, Tsar 240
Nikol'skaja, T. xxxi
Nizen, E. 108, 329 n. 1
Nolde, E. 159
Novak, A. 297 n. 152
Odoevskij, V.F. 168, 335 n. 21
Ofrosimov, Ju. 241
Onanism [Onanizm] 105
Onchukov, N. 181
Paladini, V. 333 n. 10
Pannagi, I. 333 n. 10
Parnis, A.E. xxxi , 275 n. 35, 314,
316, 328f£, 332 n. 9, 343
Pasternak, B.L. xxvii, xxixf., 45, 61££,
I N D EX / 3 6 7
211, 285 n. 99, 295 n. 145, 296 nn.
146, 149 and 159, 320 n. 1 , 344
"About These Verses" [Pro Ui
stixi] 61
Above the Barriers
bar'erov] 61, 296 n. 145
[Poverx
"In the mirror . . . " 61
My Sister Life [Sestra moja zhizn']
61, 295 n. 145
Themes and Variations [ Temy i
varijacii] 296 n. 145
Pasternak, E.B. xxxi
Pasternak, E.V. xxxi
Pechstein, M. 156, 158, 332 n. 1
Perov, V. 284 n. 94
Pervov, PD. 30£, 278 n. 62
Peshkovskij, A. M. 192, 339 n. 20
Peter I, Tsar 214
Picabia, F. 167, 335 n. 14, 336 n. 38
Picasso, P 5, 11
Pil'skij, P 233
Piri, R 159
Pirkova-]akobson, S. (R].'s second
wife) 296 n. 150
Poe, E.A. 187
"Raven, The" 187
Poelzig, H. 159
Pokrovskij, M.M. 79, 304 n. 194
Polivanov, E. 37, 80
Polockij, Simeon 189, 339 n. 15
Polonskaja, V. 3 12 n. 238
Polonskij, ]a. 303 n. 185
Pomorska, K. xxviii, xxxi
Poplavskaja, N. 48, 287 n. 110
Poplavskij, B. 287 n. 110
Potebnja, A.A. 9
Povolockij, ]a. 132, 324 n. 2
Procopius (Prokop), Abbot 323 n. 6
Prozorov 30
Prutkov, K. (imaginary poet created
by A.K. Tolstoj and the Zhemchu­
zhnikov brothers) 12
Puni, I. 13
Punin, N. 311 n. 229, 256, 344
Pushkin, A.S. 8, 10, 13, 60, 62, 74,
99, 127, 173f£, 176, 184, 190f£ ,
193, 205£, 224, 240ff., 255, 278 n.
61, 295 n. 144, 301 n. 176, 303 n.
183, 335 n. 22
Eugene Onegin [Evgenij Onegin]
278 n. 61, 301 n. 176, 335 n. 22
Radin, E.P. 103, 3 14 n. 5, 316 n. 13
Rafael 147
Rainis, ]. 85, 306 n. 207
Rakovskij, x.G. 53, 290 n. 123, 291
n. 124
Raskol'nikov, F.F. 298 n. 69
Raxmaninov, S. 7, 271 n. 1 1
Reformatskij, A.A. 302 n . 178
Reisner, L. 65, 298 n. 159
Remizov, A.M. 5
Remondino, D. 333 n. 10
Repin, I. 1 1£, 65, 160, 204, 274 n.
29, 332 n. 7
Rerix [Roerich], N. 281 n. 79
Ribemont-Dessaignes, C. 166, 335
n. 1 1
Richepin, ]. 3 6
Rimbaud, A . 3
Rissanen, O. 282
Roaring Parnassus [RykajushchiiParnas]
3 15 n. 7
Robespierre, M. 257
Rodchenko, A. 28, 278 n. 60, 330
Rodichev, F. 281 n. 79, 282 n. 80,
291 n. 129
Rosengrant, ]. 294 n. 142
Roskin, V. 304 n. 191
3 6 8 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
Rozanova, O. 13, 275 n. 35
Rubens, P. 29
Rubinshtein, I. 6
Rudy, S. ix, xxxi, 281 n. 78, 286 n.
108, 341
Rumer, O.B. 285 n. 95, 293 n. 139
Russolo, L. 329 n. 5
Ryleev, K.F. 240
Sakulin, P. N. 1 19, 321 n. 5
Saltykov-Shchedrin, M. E. 97
Samuelson, B. xxxi
Samuelson, E. xxxi
Sandomirskij, G. 309 n. 221
Saran, F. 178, 339 n. 11
Saussure, F. de 128
Saxarov, I.P. 16, 275 n. 32 Schiller, F.
240
Schmidt-Roduff, K. 159
Schwichtenberg, M. 159
Sechehaye, A. 27, 277 n. 55
Seifert, ]. 63, 288 n. 116, 297 n. 152
Sel'vinskij, I.L. 90, 211, 296 n. 146,
341 n. 1
Serezhnikov, V.K. 73, 302 n. 179
Serov, V. 6f., 270 n. 5, 271 n. 8
Severini, G. 329 n. 5
Severjanin, I. 51, 105, 108, 277 n. 50,
289 n. 1 17, 316 n. 18, 318 n. 6
The Goblet Seething with Thunders
[Gromokipjashchij kubok] 3 1 8 n. 6
Shakespeare, W. 170
Sharik 140, 327 n. 2
Shaxmatov, A.A. 35
Shchegolev, P.E. 174
Shcherba, L.V. 178, 197, 338 n. 9
Shemshurin, A. 275 n. 35
Shershenevich, V. 288 n. 115, 329 n. 5
Shevchenko, A. 55, 291 n. 128
S ima, ]. 27, 277 n. 57
Shiman, E . G. 68, 300 n. 167
Shklovskij, Viktor (diminutive Vitja)
B. xiii, xix, xxix, xxx, 29, 34, 37f.,
44f., 49, 64f., 73, 80, 87, 120f.,
134f., 137, 139f., 211, 235, 273 n.
24, 279 nn. 71 and 72, 280 n. 77,
284 n. 94, 285 n. 96, 288 n. 1 14,
291 n. 126, 298 nn. 156-159 and
160, 300 n. 170, 305 nn. 197 and
198, 307 n. 208, 214, 310 n. 226,
321 n. 6, 322 n. 11, 325 nn. 2, 3
and 5, 326 n. 1 (to letters 15 and
17), 332 n. 7
Shkol'nik, I. 13
Shmidt-Roduf, K. 159
Shox, P. 79
Shterenberg, A. xviif., 278 n. 60
Simakov, N.B. 161, 332 n. 8
Skaftymov, A.P. 88
Skoropadskij, P. 53, 290 n. 122
Slap in the Face o/'Public Taste, A [Posh­
chechina obshestvennomu vkusu]
11ff., 212
Slavickova, M. xxxi
Socrates 65
Sodergran, E. 299 n. 160
Sokolov, N. 53
Sologub, F.K. 5, 33, 279 n. 70, 318 n. 6
Somov, K. 282 n. 80
Spengler, O. 164f., 334 n. 5
Sperber, H. 179, 339 n. 12
Spring Contractorship 0/' the Muses
[ Vesennee kontragenstvo muz] 331
n. 3
Stahlberger, L. 285 n. 98
Stalin, ]. 220, 283 n. 86, 289 n. 1 16,
291 n. 126, 306 n. 202, 306 n. 204,
323 n. 5
INDEX / 3 6 9
Stepanov, N. 60
Stepanova, V. 28
Stepun, F. 104, 315 n. 9
Strzheminskij, Y.M. 291 n. 129
Stuck, F. von 204, 340 n. 29
Studio of the Impressionists [Studija
impressionistov] 16, 274 n. 3 1
Stumpf, C. 146, 329 n . 2
Sudejkin, S. 19, 283 n. 86, 287 n. 1 12
Sutherland, D. 280 n. 78
Svedlov, Ja. M. 298 n. 159
Sveshnikov, p.p. 293 n. 139
Svjatopolk-Mirskij, D. 340
Tairov, A. 4
Tastevin, G.E. 8f£, 20, 272 n. 14
Tatlin, V. xvii, 169, 335 n. 23
Teige, K. 27, 277 n. 58
Thibaudet, A. 8, 10, 272 n. 58
Timenchik, R. xxxi
Tjutchev, F. 17
Toistoj, A.K. 17
Toistoj, A.N. 21, 285 n. 99, 334 n. 2
Toistoj, L.N. 187f., 274 n. 29
"Death of Ivan Il 'ich" 187
Anna Karenina 187
War and Peace 302 n. 176
Tomashevskij, B. Y. 270 n. 1
Trap for Judges, A [Sadok sudq] 15£,
274 nn. 30 and 31, 3 1 8 n. 7
Trediakovskij, Y.K. 10£, 207, 272£ n.
19, 340 n. 31
Tret'jakov, S.M. 312 n. 238
Triolet, A. 318 n. 1
Triolet, Elsa Ju. xxiv, xxvi, xxix, 3237, 40f£ , 46, 69, 93£, 109-41,
259ff, 270 n. 3, 278 nn. 67 and 68,
280 nn. 74 and 76, 285 n. 101, 295
n. 145, 297 n. 153, 299 n. 162, 310
n. 227 and 228, :l 14, :l18f., :l19 n.
3, 320 n . 2 , 322 n. 7, 322 nn. 2 and
4, 323 n. 8, 324£, 325 nn. 2-5,
326, 327 n. 5, 345
Trockaja, 0.: see Kameneva, O.
Trockij, L. 65, 72, 89, 213, 288 n.
1 15, 291 n. 126, 298 n. 159
Trubetzkoy, N,S. 19, 61, 131, 324 n. 2
Tuwim, ]. 63, 297 n. 153
Tynjanov, Ju.N. 307 n. 208, 325 n. 3
Tzara, T. 166, 168f£, 172, 335 nn. 9,
12, 15 and 19, 336 nn. 24, 27, 30,
33, 35 and 36, 337 n. 39
Umanskij, K.A. 56, 292 n. 132
Umov, N.A. 4, 150, 269 n. 1, 330 n. 7
Ushakov, D.N. 53£, 88, 302 n. 179
Valjuzhenich, A.V. 284 n. 93
Vallgren, V. 281 n. 80
van Dongen, K. 158
van Gogh, T. 332 n. 3
van Gogh, V. 6" 157£, 332 n. 3
Vancura, V. 63, 297 n. 152
Vauxcelles, L. 156, 332 n. 1
Vaxtangov, E. 4
Venevitinov, D.V. 240
Verdi, G. 74
Vergil 199
Verhaeren, E. 36
Verne, ]. 287 n, 109
Vermel', F.M. 293 n, 139
Vertinskij, A.I. 33, 278 n. 69
Victoria (Qyeen) 263
Vinokur, G. xxx, 73, 1 10, 293 n. 139,
294 n. 143, 319 n. 2
Voloshin, M. A. 12, 273 n. 24
Volynskij, A. 80
Vol'pert, V. xxxi
3 7 0 / MY F U T U R I S T YEARS
Vorovskij, V. 74, 82, 306 n. 204
Vrchlick", J. 308 n. 215
Vrubel', M. 271 n. 8
Waske, E. 159
Wierszynski, K. 63, 297 n. 153
Wilson, W. 70f., 216
Wolff, M. O. 99
takovaja] 17
"Lips Sang Bobeobi, The" [Bobeobi
pelis' guby] 273 n. 21
Little Devil, The [Chertik] 188
"Ljubxo" 15
Maiden God, A [Dev£i bog] 61
"Malusha's Granddaughter"
[ Vnuchka Malushi] 188
Marquise Desaix [Markiza Dezes]
Xalatov, A. 233, 309 n. 221
Xardzhiev, N. xxviii, 271 n. 12, 313
Xemnicer, I. I. 330 n. 13
Xlebnikov, V. xivf., xxiv, xxvii, xxixf.,
4, 8, I Hf., 15ff., 18ff., 20f., 27, 34,
49, 56-61, 63, 67, 77, 79f., 105,
107, 1 19, 165, 173-208, 210ff.,
217, 228, 230, 234, 272 n. 13, 273
n. 21, 274 n. 31, 275 nn. 32, 35, 36
and 39, 292 nn. 133-136, 293 nn.
137, 139 and 140, 294 nn. 141143, 295 n. 144, 296 n. 146, 300 n.
169, 313, 3 14 n. 3, 316 nn. 14 -15,
317 n. 4, 319 n. 5, 321 n. 4, 322 n.
1 , 334 n. 6, 337f., 338 n. 8, 341 n.
3, 344
Children ofthe Otter [Dety vydry]
188
Crane, The [Zhuravt] 181£.
Creations [Tvorenija] 57
Death's Mistake [Oshibka Smerti]
1 85
"Grasshopper, The" [Kuznechik]
19, 273 n. 21
I and E [I i E] 61
"Incantation by Laughter" [Zakfjatie
smexom] 16, 19, 196f.
Iranian Song [Iranskaja pesnja]
304 n. 190
"Ka" 188, 199, 207
' ''Letter as Such, The" [Bukva kak
17, 182f.
"Monument" [Panyatnik] 273 n. 21
Mrs. Leneen [Gospozha Lenin] 198
Night in Galicia, A [Noch' v
Galicii] 16, 207
"On the Island Osel" [Na ostrove
Ezele] 61
Przheval'skij's Horse [Kon' Przhevatskogo] 273 n. 21
Roar! [Rjav 1 16, 19
"School" [Uchilica] 188
Selection ofPoems [Izbornik stixov]
.
275 n. 32
Seven [Semero] 17
Snake Train [Zm.jpoezda] 61
Thicket [Trushchoby] 274 n. 31
Vila and a Wood Goblin, A [ Vila i
Leshi;1 61
Wisdom in a Snare [Mudrost' v
silke] 207
World in Reverse [Mirskdnca] 188
Xodasevich, V. 4, 150, 285 n. 99, 327
n. 3
Xvol 'son, O.D. 4, 150, 269f. n. 1 ,
329 n . 7
Zamjatin, E.I. 211, 222
We [My] 222
Zdanevich, I. 95, 282 n. 80
Zhebrovskij, V. 6, 271 n. 7
I N D EX I 3 7 1
Zillov'ev, G.E. 40, 82
Zola, E. 284 ll. 94
Zubat", J. 198, 340 ll. 25